She A Working Title
by Lady M28
Summary: You never know what can happen when you take the opportunities life throws your way. Logan becomes intrigued by someone he sees through a window. Set mid A Messenger, Nothing More.
1. Day 5

**AN**: This is being written for the **Rory ficathon 06**, for **cuppa joe**, my prompt is at the end.

As always I want to thank my very fabulous beta, **fulfilled** . To say she makes everything I write so much better is a huge understatement. But in this case it's even more true. I decided for the ficathon to step outside my S6 based comfort zone with Rory & Logan, and try my hand at something different, them when they are first meeting, even if I am setting it differently from when it happened on the show. They are very different characters, in a very different place in their lives. Which for me was a challenge. It has also been a lot of fun too. But it is a bit slower going since I'm wanting to wait on the next part from fulfilled before I really dig into the next section I have to write. I'm having to really pay attention to the pacing of things here, which I normally don't, since I've always written them already as a committed--and in love with one another--couple.

Also, I'm very much so exploring a different side of what attracted them to one another from the usual. I think a lot of people focus on the banter & wit in S5 based fic, and that is a big part of them, I always try to keep true to that as well. Or the LDB, which is out of the question here, since none of that has happened as of yet where I'm setting this. But there are references, allusions, in the canon of the show to the approach I'm taking. I told I think I produced Lit fic, which is kinda amusing to me, since I'm so not a Lit. However, I think it fits them. I hope y'all enjoy it, like I said, I've had a good time writing it.

Finally, I should note, the form of the story took some inspiration from _A Confederacy of Dunces_. If you've ever read it, you will understand.

**She - a working title**

**Day Five**

Today she had come. You smile to yourself, reaching over to pick up the spyglass to see what today's selection would be. For the first time she had three books with her; the three other days she had only brought two - one novel or play and one essay anthology or poetry collection. You need her to tilt the books where you can see them, though you guess they are authors of American origin; so far that's what they've all been.

The first day you noticed her she had been accompanied by a pair of Henrys: Thoreau's _Walden_ and James's _Portrait of a Lady_. Day two had seen her accompanied by another Henry - Longfellow this time - and you hoped she had read _The Courtship of Miles Standish_ when she had picked it up. It had been your selection, but she had mixed it up with Edith Wharton's _The Age of Innocence_ as well. Day three had been completely different - no Henrys - instead, Whitman's _Leaves of Grass_ and Eugene O'Neill's _A Long Day's Journey Into Night_, which you had gone out to a book shop after she went inside to find a copy, since there hadn't been one in the library downstairs. That had been on Saturday, when someone taking her bench had annoyed her. She had given him a hard stare for a minute; you had chuckled to yourself, wondering if you would finally get to see her speak, but she had turned and sat under a large nearby tree instead. Her powers of concentration were tested that day by the weekend revelers taking advantage of the perfect mid July weather, but she seemed to be unphased by the children playing football and tag, or anyone else in the garden that day.

Yesterday, though, she hadn't come, and you had been afraid that perhaps she'd left, until she appeared just now. But then, perhaps her serenity hadn't been quite as deep as it had seemed at first glance; perhaps she's been just as annoyed by all the noise as she was by the couple sitting on her bench.

_The Collected Works of Langston Hughes_, Saul Bellow's _Humboldt's Gift_ and Tennessee Williams _The Glass Menagerie_; all excellent choices, you nod, setting down the spyglass and getting up from the window seat, assuming you will find them downstairs. Your father keeps a well-stocked library in all the family residences, including both London addresses. Of course, given the family business, reverence for the written word seems natural.

She was beautiful - that's a given, otherwise she never would have caught your eye - but not what you would ever call exotic. Maybe it's because you assume she's American, but she comes off as a classic 'girl next door' type of beauty, from the straight brown hair to her fresh, always almost make-up free face. Her huge eyes though, they're what really catch your attention. Your curiosity as to their color is nearly driving you to get a closer look at her. The way she sometimes stares at nothing makes you think of the women of Vermeer's paintings, like _Girl with a Pearl Earring_, and _ Woman with a Water Jug_. They draw you in, making you want to be the one that is the key to putting a smile on their faces, but the veil and sadness rebuff you at the same time. Making you want to decipher their mystery, but unsure if you were worthy of the task. The sadness you've imagined in them is what keeps you coming back, hoping for a glimpse of her, but also keeps you rooted to the window seat, not daring to actually approach her.

It makes you think she would require more work than is your style, more work than your usual playmates require, really than makes you comfortable. Emotionless fun, where everyone knew the score, is your modus operandi, no one that might require some tenacity or effort, or might actually involve emotions. But if you never approach her you'll never really know the color of her eyes, if they are the windows to her soul that you envision them to be.

"Ah, screw it," you say to yourself once you get to the library, picking up a copy of James Baldwin's _Go Tell It On The Mountain_, which you need to read for a twentieth-century American authors class you have in the fall anyway, and heading out the back gate before you can think twice about your decision.

She's partially obscured by the large tree near her bench, your current angle different from the one you're used to seeing out the window. When you get close enough and you can see her clearly, you hesitate. Till now, she could be anyone you want her to be, an empty vessel that you can fill with your own ideas of who she might be, but actually approaching her might ruin all of that.

She might have a churlish attitude, or be a social climber, or find out who you are and suddenly start planning how to entwine your names together forevermore, just like every other girl you've ever met seems to do. She wouldn't be the soft-spoken, intelligent, beautiful bookworm you've built up in your mind. Her voice would instead grate on your nerves, be screechy, or too loud. Those eyes that you could tell through the spyglass are huge might be hard and brittle, telling you of her jadedness, something so familiar to you in the girls you know. Somehow you know that would disappoint you most- you need her to be different, worth the time you've already invested in her.

But if you don't try to find out, you'll never know, and she would be built up in your mind as this paragon of perfection that got away, and that just isn't you. You live in the moment and jump at opportunities when they are presented to you; spontaneous is your middle name.

Colin and Finn would never let you hear the end of it if they knew you were sitting in a window seat overlooking a private garden in London looking out a spyglass hoping to see a particular beautiful girl, five days in a row. They would think you'd lost your mind. So would Honor, who is the reason you're stuck here anyway. She was supposed to meet you, but instead, you're cooling your heels, waiting with your mother, and your idea of fun doesn't include going to tea with her friends every afternoon, listening to them try to marry you off to their daughters and granddaughters.

You're not entirely sure why you've stayed; even Honor's phone calls each morning are beginning to be hollow and redundant. But she's the one person in the world that you've always tried to not let down, and you're supposed to go up to Skye with her, to go hiking for a couple of days, even if she can't seem to quite tear herself away from Ibiza.

So you keep going back to the window seat and her. And if you don't act, you might always wonder about the beautiful girl from the garden, that maybe you had passed on the opportunity to meet the perfect girl for you. Not that you're looking, though, because you're not.

"Hello, do you mind if I join you?" you ask after a moment. Her powers of concentration are evident - she hadn't even realized you'd walked up, pointing toward the large tree she'd sat under two days prior, with your book.

"No, that would be fine," she says softly after a moment, looking up in confusion. Her eyes are even more beautiful close up, as blue as any ocean you've sailed, and filled with the sadness you've projected onto her. Her voice is just as beautiful as you'd imagined - soft, yet melodic.

"You're American," you continue, sitting down under the tree, not wanting to lose the moment.

"Yes, I am," she nods. "As are you."

"Yes, I am," you repeat back, falling into silence nd opening your book when she puts her head back into hers.

You want to say something, to continue the conversation, but you also don't want it to seem obvious that you'd come here just to speak to her. So you instead let yourself get immersed in nineteen-thirties Harlem.

You steal glances at her every so often, hoping maybe she will meet your eye, but she doesn't. The powers of concentration she displayed on Saturday are obviously not challenged by one mere mortal. She switches between her books every so often, not with any discernable pattern - at least not one you're able to pick up on.

You continue reading and stealing glances at her for the next ninety minutes or so, till she looks up at the sun with an open mouthed glance, as if it's about to tell her something, before getting up, brushing down her skirt, picking up her books and heading back in the direction you've realized she comes from with a soft, "Enjoy the sunshine. Have a nice day."

You mumble something incoherent in return. It's one of the few times in your life you're not ready with an appropriate comeback, making you kick yourself, thinking, 'So much for making a good first impression'.

---

_…I'm starting to miss Mom. I love Grandma, and I think I did need to get away from things for a while, but I'm starting to miss her now…_

TBC

**Story prompt**: (from the movie Notting Hill; referring to Marc Chagall's painting 'La Mariee'):

Will: You like Chagall?  
Anna: I do. It feels like how being in love should be. Floating through a dark blue sky.  
Will: With a goat playing the violin.  
Anna: Yes-happiness isn't happiness without a violin-playing goat.

One thing you would like to see in the story: a private garden square in Notting Hill, London

One thing you don't want to see in the story: Rory in tears or crying 


	2. Day 6

**Day Six**

"You're back?" she says, sitting down on her bench, and opening one of the two books which are her companions today. You can't see what the titles are, though your curiosity is huge.

"The ambiance can't be beat," you smile. "I hope you don't mind my being here?"

"It's a public garden, as long as you have access to one of the houses that faces it. You didn't go all Hugh Grant in _Notting Hill_, did you? Jumping over the fence?" she questions with a laugh. Her laugh is beautiful, as is her smile, just like her.

"No," you chuckle in return. "My family owns one of the houses on the north end of the gardens."

"Ah, well, my grandmother and I are staying with friends of hers on the west side," she says, pointing and then going back to what she was reading. 

"I hope you don't think I'm being too forward," you say after a few minutes, "but I was wondering what you're reading?"

"Oh, no, I don't mind at all," she smiles. "William Faulkner's _As I Lay Dying_ and when I need a break, a side of _The Portable Dorothy Parker_," she says, holding both up for you to see.

"Ah, 'my mother is a fish,' and I would quote the 'boys don't make passes' line, but I find it's just not true," you say, making both of you laugh. 

"You're a Faulkner fan?" she asks, perking up.

"I had to read _Absalom, Absalom!_ my sophomore year, and _Light in August_ in high school. I'm not a huge fan of Yoknapatawpha County, but some interesting stuff does happen there. He's not whom I would readily pick up when I'm just looking for something to read for the hell of it. There are other southern authors I prefer - Flannery O'Connor, Truman Capote's early work, Eudora Welty, Carson McCullers, Tom Robbins is always good for a laugh, Wendell Berry, John Kennedy Toole, Zora Neale Hurston. I guess it's banal, but Harper Lee, and even Cormac McCarthy, though I guess he's not really southern, more modern, unromaticized western."

"I adore _A Confederacy of Dunces_," she grins. "It's one I can read over and over and never tire of."

"I would agree. Whenever I have a hotdog I think of Ignatius," you smile. "I must have read it four or five times, and I've never been able to decide if I like him or Don Quixote more - both of their flights of fancy are so amusing, yet appealing."

"It's funny, because I love all things related to pop culture, but I totally get the mocking part," she grins, laughing in a way that lights up her eyes. "So on the one hand, I totally get where he's coming from, but on the other I can't imagine the disdain."

"He does do his own version of windmill tilting quite well," you laugh in return.

"I'd tend to agree," she smiles, pulling her bottom lip through her teeth. "There's plenty of challenging reading on the syllabus, so I'm trying to get ahead for the fall semester," she explains. "I have this huge survey of American Literature class that is more reading than I've ever had to do at one time, and I'm afraid it's going to eat my lunch."

"I'm sure you'll do fine," you chuckle, amused at her obvious overachieverness. You'd always made good grades, but very rarely had to actually work at it. Your transition from high school to college hadn't been especially difficult, but it had probably helped that you had partied your way through the latter half of high school, getting yourself ready for the college grind. "If you're diligent enough to get the syllabus of a class in the summer, then you must be extremely organized. I tend to end up surprised when the TA announces that we hopefully haven't forgotten the paper we have due in five days."

"Yeah, well, I thought I was the queen of organization, too," she replies with a shake of her head, and a pulling at the sleeves of her cardigan. "But everyone at Yale was the valedictorian of their high school, everyone is super organized, everyone is used to making straight A's. I got the first grade I'm ashamed to admit I got last year; I even had to drop a class because I was going to fail it. I'm not letting that happen this year…" she rambles.

She'd lost you at 'Yale'. You can't believe your luck - this exquisite girl with the sad, but, beautiful eyes and lovely melodic voice goes to Yale.

"You're an Eli?" you cut in.

"You're an alumnus?" she asks after a moment, eyes wide.

"No, I start my junior year in a few weeks," you smile.

"Really?" she asks, her eyes widening, her voice full of wonder. "That's crazy. I've never seen you around campus, but then, maybe we don't have the same major, or same extracurricular activities. There are a lot of people at Yale. I'm starting my sophomore year."

"Well, that explains it, then," you return. "I took last year off - some friends of mine and I decided to play Magellan, but didn't exactly make it all the way around the globe. We made it to Fiji, and had a bit of a mishap." You decide to go with the _Readers Digest_ condensed version of events. "So we never would have met at school. I'll be living at Berkeley in the fall, I'm an econ and history double - well it's degree really, since it's different schools - but major, with an English minor."

"Oh, okay, I'll be at Branford. I'm an English and poli sci double major with a minor in philosophy."

"Goodness, the college of liberal arts really must love you," you laugh.

"I guess they must," she nods with a small giggle. "Nothing practical about anything I'm studying, though I guess that's part of why I joined the _Daily News_ staff. That's practical, since I do want to go into journalism. Tricky thing, since there's no school of journalism or journalism major. You would have thought I would have considered that when I was falling in love with Yale."

Maybe this was turning out to be a bad joke, maybe she knows who you are, maybe…you shake off the doubts creeping into your brain - you've grown so cynical at such a young age. You'd approached her, not the other way around. 

But women have been throwing themselves at you since you were too young to really even understand what was going on, and now you meet an exquisitely beautiful girl who happens to want to be a journalist and goes to Yale, which makes you assume the worst. You shut down that line of thinking in your brain and go a different direction instead.

"Is Doyle still cracking the whip at the _Daily News_?" you force yourself to laugh.

"You're on staff at the _Daily News_, too?" she questions, eyes squinting as she looks at you with skepticism. "I'm not famous, so I'm not wondering if Ashton Kutcher is around in back of that tree you're leaning against, but this is a little too 'this is your life' for me."

She causes you to laugh, and in the process alleviates many of the voices you're trying to push back in your head; she has no idea who you are. "It is a little Twilight Zoney, I have to agree. I was a little taken aback myself when you said you were on the _Daily News_ staff," you smile. "I'm Logan, Logan Huntzberger," you say, crawling toward her on your knees to extend your hand.

"Oh my goodness!" she laughs, her eyes widening, one hand going to her mouth, you can see her quickly putting together who you are. "My grandmother knows your mother; I've been leaving the house when she comes by for tea. They're gossiping about people I don't know really doesn't interest me. I'm Rory Gilmore," she finishes, extending her hand to shake yours.

"Richard and Emily's granddaughter?" you question, chuckling.

"Yes," she nods.

"This really is a small world," you reply with a shake of your head.

"Just don't start singing the song. I might have to do bodily harm to you then," she laughs.

"I promise," you swear, holding your hands up in mock surrender. "I wouldn't be caught dead. Maybe if I went to Disney, but even then, only to mock."

"In the great tradition of Ignatius and Lorelai Gilmore, mocking is always appreciated," she grins conspiratorially. "But to answer your question, yes, Doyle is still laboring as editor; he'll be in charge when we get back for fall semester as well."

"Well that's good to know," you return with a small smile, not letting on to the irony of your answer. In Doyle's mind, you exist just to further his career aspirations, which allows you to treat him and his beloved paper with utter contempt. He looks at you as his golden meal ticket, a conduit to your powerful sire, not realizing how much you despise anyone who thinks of you as a Huntzberger first and not just Logan.

"I guess newspapering is in your blood," she remarks.

"According to my father, it's part of my DNA, imprinted on my soul," you mutter. "I should let you get back to your book, or books," you say, not really wanting to discuss the paper or journalism. "I wouldn't want to be the cause of you getting behind and have to face the wrath of Professor Farthing or Watson or Brown."

"Thank you," she chuckles. "Though I think for the first time since Chilton, I'm actually ahead. Maybe this semester won't kick my butt quite as hard as I thought," she finishes with a smile, before burying her head back in Yoknapatawpha County. You go back to your Baldwin, though you steal glances across at her every so often, noting that she does switch to her Dorothy Parker after a bit. You feel her stealing glances your way as well, which secretly pleases you, though you make sure your expression never changes. 

After a bit more than an hour, you stretch, your ass asleep and your limbs cramped from lack of movement, deciding that maybe it's time to get up and take a stroll. You check your watch, realizing that your mother will be back soon, and decide to head back to the house, not wanting her to catch you with her friend's lovely granddaughter. It might put thoughts in her head that you don't want there. The thought of maybe asking out the lovely Miss Gilmore and experiencing what you're sure is the great pleasure of her company when you're both back at Yale is a distinct possibility, but putting matchmaking thoughts in your mother's head or that of one of her friends isn't something you want to happen yet - at least, not for years and years.

"I think I'm going to head back inside," you say, stretching out your arms and adjusting your stiff back. "Are you here much longer?"

"We're here till Tuesday of next week, so a week more," she replies.

"Will you be back here tomorrow?" You know she will, but she doesn't know you've been spying on her for days.

"Yes," she nods.

"I'll bring tea, if you don't mind the company?" you offer, thinking of the bakery you know just around the corner where you can get scones and sandwiches. She probably eats like a bird, just like every other slender girl you knew, but you've never let a nibbling female stop you from enjoying a good meal.

"I would love the company," she smiles widely, making you grin in return. "But you can hold the tea, I'm a coffee drinker. That's the one bad thing about this country - you can't find a decent cup of coffee. Italy and France both have excellent coffee."

"I'll see you tomorrow," she says. You see her blushing and smiling into her lap as you glance over your shoulder for a last look, pleased she's as affected as you've been for days.

---

_I've often wondered what it might feel like to have something significant happen and not realize that it did till later. Not that this was significant, I doubt it was, but still. _

I met a boy yesterday, though I'm not even sure it would qualify as meeting him, since really we just exchanged greetings. But it turned out that he was a fellow Yalie, though he took last year off, so I never would have seen him around campus. And it's not like he's my type - his family makes Grandma and Grandpa look like paupers, to begin with. But it's been so long since I've met anyone who shared my love of language, really since I was first getting to know Jess. I thought I would meet lots of people like that last year at school, but somehow it never happened. 

Not that any of this matters. I'm not interested in Logan, not romantically. Supposedly I love Dean, otherwise why did I do what I did? But I made a disaster of that anyway - why would anyone want to be with me? But maybe I made a friend today, and it would be nice to have friends at school - I could use a few of those. He seems a little forward; he did approach me both times, after all, but maybe he has some nice friends that I could hang out with when we get back to school. Not that Paris isn't great…ok, that's not true, and you should never lie to your journal. Paris is a pain in the butt, and I love her in spite of that, but it would be nice to meet some people besides Paris. It is funny though, having to come to London to meet someone who might become a friend back home… 

TBC 


	3. Day 7

**Day Seven**

"I believe the lady ordered coffee," you call out, strolling up to the bench where she is just settling in, laying her books to the side. She's wearing a bright green and white, knee length skirt, which isn't unusual; she always has on an a-line skirt that demurely just covers her knees. Emily's influence, you assume, making you wonder how she dresses away from her grandmother. Today's selection is paired with a white tank and pale pink, elbow length cardigan, her Sabrina sling backs already kicked off, so she can feel the grass between her toes.

"I did," she grins in anticipation. "Though I have to admit, I'm not expecting much. I told you I haven't had a decent cup since we got to England. Makes me almost wish I drank tea. Or that I had some sort of great urge to visit Colombia," she laughs.

"I don't see you as the belle of Bogotá, but we'll see if my coffee making skills are up to snuff," you reply, opening the small picnic basket you have prepared, pulling out a thermos and a white ironstone cup and saucer. 

"Well if the coffee is half as good as the service…" she replies with a slight note of sarcasm in her voice. 

"I am nothing if not accommodating," you return with a wink, handing her the steaming cup of coffee. Actually, this is unusual for you. Normally the only thing that inspires you to do something like this is the anticipation of the inevitable reciprocation in the form of you getting inside the beneficiary's pants, or in Rory's case, under her skirt. But strangely, that hasn't really crossed your mind. 

Not that you wouldn't like to experience the wonders of Rory Gilmore - the thought of her doing naughty things to you while looking at you with those huge, innocent blue eyes definitely has its appeal. However, the innocence you see in them keeps your baser thoughts at bay. You suspect she would ask more of you, expect more of you, than you're willing to give. You keep a wide berth from girls like Rory - it actually surprises you that you were drawn to her in the first place.

"There's also sugar and a bit of cream right here," you say, pulling the items out of the basket, setting them on the seat next to her. "Also, there are scones with cream and jam, sandwiches, and a bit of field greens, if you want a salad," you continue, pulling things out of the hamper.

"Oh my God, this is really good," she says, closing her eyes in a sort of orgasmic communion, as she tastes the coffee you gave her. You've met plenty of coffee addicts in your day, but never one never one who greeted a cup of coffee quite the way she just did. It seems to be some sort of religious experience.

"Hawaiian beans, from Kauai," you reply, glad to have made her happy. 

"Well, it's almost as good as Luke's," she says after a few moments and a couple of more sips. "Which is a _huge_ compliment, though you might not know it."

"Luke's?" you ask, completely confused.

"Luke's is a diner in Stars Hollow, where I'm from. It's about thirty miles west of Hartford. Luke runs the local diner and he has the absolute best coffee in the world," she grins at the thought.

The Stars Hollow reference tugs at something in your memory. You've known who she was from the moment she had told you her last name. Her mother's story is still whispered to young girls in Hartford society as a cautionary tale of what you didn't want to have happen to you, 'Lorelai Gilmore' having been a notorious rebel. Actually, you're not sure she was notorious twenty years ago, but she is a thing of legend now. A soft spoken, shy, well mannered, beautiful and intelligent young woman was not what you had ever expected to be the product of her notoriety.

"I don't think I've ever been through Stars Hollow," you admit.

"It's a tiny hamlet, not exactly a destination type of place, very quirky, but a wonderful place to grow up," she smiles. "You said you have scones?" She looks around with anticipation at the containers littering the bench.

"I do, just give me a second here," you reply, getting out a plate, opening the bakery box and pulling out a scone for her. "I have salad as well," you offer.

"Who is that for?" she asks, her voice dripping with scorn. "Are you a health nut?"

"I figured you might like some," you clarify. You've never met a girl who would turn down a salad, they all seem to think barely eating is an attractive quality, or a selling point. Though not actually eating something has never stopped any of your dates from ordering the most expensive items on any menu.

"A scone and some sandwiches will be fine," she smiles. "Do you have jam and cream too?"

"Right here." You reach over to grab a spoon and open the container holding the clotted cream that you had brought. "There are strawberry and raspberry jams."

"Yum," she says, splitting open the scone, and putting a healthy portion of strawberry jam on it and then topping that with a generous dollop of cream. "Oh my God, this is so good," she mumbles around the massive bite she took. "Napkin, napkin, napkin," she trills after she's swallowed, causing you to laugh and hand her a cotton napkin so she can wipe the cream off the tip of her nose and jam off her lips. You'd like to kiss them clean, but resist the urge.

"That's so good. I've wanted to stay for tea with Grandma just for the food, but the gossiping gives me a headache. You are a prince among men to give me the treats without the headaches. Did you say you have sandwiches as well?" she asks with a bat of her eyelashes.

"I do," you laugh, putting them on a plate. "Chicken salad, ham salad, egg salad, and cucumber and watercress."

"The egg salad and cucumber and watercress are for you, right? Just like the other green bits," she says with a wrinkle of her adorable nose.

"They're good, I promise," you reply, fixing yourself a plate. 

"I'll take your word for it," she nods, popping a chicken salad triangle in her mouth. "Oh, that's good."

"Oh, and there's fruit, too," you offer, pulling the last bit of food out of the basket. 

"Also for you," she laughs. 

"Not a fan of fruits and vegetables, I take it?" you ask, pulling the other thermos out of the basket to pour a cup of tea.

"No. Well, occasionally fruit, but generally I tend to like stuff that's bad for you. I can't wait to get home and have a cheeseburger and fries," she grins, popping the last bit of her cream-and-jam-laden scone in her mouth. "Who's that for?" she asks after she swallows, staring dubiously at the cup of tea you poured.

"Me," you reply.

"You drink tea?" she questions with a raised brow.

"Are you questioning my manhood?" you laugh, because she clearly is.

"No comment," she grins, "though it might fall in the 'real men don't eat quiche' category."

"So what are your selections today?" you ask after a few minutes of watching her eagerly pack away more food than you've seen a female eat in some time, so transfixed that you even forget to eat. No female you know eats like her - most would consider it inappropriate or uncouth, not to mention the calories and carbs consumed being a huge no-no. Her obvious lack of caring just adds to her immense appeal.

"What?" she replies, clearly not getting where you had moved the conversation. "God, this really is wonderful," she says, licking her fingers.

"There are more scones," you offer. "Though I probably should have gotten more sandwiches. What are you reading today?" you clarify for her.

"Oh, Willa Cather's _My Antonia_ and Ezra Pound. What about you?" she asks. "I really shouldn't eat another one - it would be so gluttonous, but I really do want to," she grins, her tongue sneaking out to touch her upper lip as she eyes the plate of scones in anticipation.

"I'm still in depression era Harlem," you return, not having finished _Go Tell It On The Mountain_ yesterday. "If you want one, go ahead," you prompt, nudging the plate toward her.

"I haven't ever read that, though I've meant to for a long time. You'll have to tell me if you like it. I read _Invisible Man_ the summer before my sophomore year of high school," she says, still eyeing the plate with two scones left on it.

"I've read Ellison, too, but this is totally different," you elaborate. "If it's about racial identity, it's racial identity through religious discovery, whereas _Invisible Man_ is more racial identity through societal displacement."

"True," she nods. "Okay, I think I've decided to definitely have another scone, but I'm going to wait to let what I've already eaten settle a bit."

"Well then I'll let you get lost in the prairies of Nebraska," you nod back, pouring yourself another cup of tea and getting a few sandwiches a scone and some fruit before moving to sit under the tree.

You're surprised about forty-five minutes later when she really does pick up her second scone and puts just as generous helpings of jam and cream on it as she had the first one. She eats it with just as much enthusiasm as the first, continuing to read her book.

After another half hour she gets up and stretches before putting back on her shoes, and asking, "I'll see you tomorrow?" biting the corner of her bottom lip. There's a hopeful look in her eye, yet it's still unsure and cautious at the same time. But you don't plan on disappointing her.

"You will," you confirm with a smiling nod. "And I'll bring more sandwiches this time."

"Thank you for the coffee - it's the best I've had in a while," she says, turning to walk away with a small wave of her fingers. Her walk is just as lovely as the rest of her, you note. Unhurried, with a small swaying of her slightly rounded hips. 

This unexpected delay has proven to be the perfect antidote to a crazy year and Honor's rude delay. Tomorrow's tea hour can't get here fast enough, you muse, before burying your head back in your book.

---

_I think I scared Logan today. He looked at me like I'd grown another head while he was watching me eat. Of course he's never seen Mom eat, so he doesn't really know what a true champion eater looks like. There is something to be said for a man who can make that good of a cup of coffee, though. Mom's onto something there with Luke. _

I think the thing I really enjoy the most is the companionship. Both of us manage to get lost in our own worlds, but you still sense the other person's presence there. The only way I can think of to describe it is comforting, though that seems strange, since I barely know him. I'm looking forward to seeing him tomorrow, though probably not as much as I am…

TBC


	4. Day 8

**AN**: As ever, thanks so much to my beta, **fulfilled**, she is fantastical! This is the next part of my entry to the Rory Ficathon for **cuppa joe**. Also, thank you to everyone that's reviewed. They are greatly appreciated.

**Day 8**

"I found these really wonderful looking shepherd's pies and I couldn't resist getting a couple. I know they're not exactly the usual tea time fare, but I figured after the way you ate so enthusiastically yesterday, I could take the chance," you say, walking up to the bench where Rory is settling in. "I hope you like lamb."

"Lamb is good," she smiles up at you, rooting her butt around to find a comfortable position. She's wearing a pale blue crocheted cardigan, which sets off her eyes perfectly. "I'm sure that after yesterday, you can guess that I'll eat just about anything."

"Except fruits and vegetables," you reply with a raised brow.

"Yes, except fruits and vegetables," she grins back. "Oh, Frederic and Catherine!" she exclaims, picking up the book you've dropped on the bench. "I take it you finished _Go Tell It On The Mountain_?"

"Coffee?" you ask, handing her a steaming cup and saucer.

"Please," she smiles, taking the cup and putting a small amount of cream in it.

"Yeah, I finished it last night," you nod, pulling the pastries you've gotten out of the basket and setting them on plates. 

"So, what was the verdict?" she asks, taking the fork you're holding out to her.

"I think the thing I found most interesting about it, now that I'm done, is that _Invisible Man_ was written the year before," you elaborate, passing her a plate with her Shephard's pie and a helping of the fruit salad you brought, hoping she'll eat some. "This could have been written in the thirties, when it took place. Both were written during a transitional period for African Americans, moving toward the Civil Rights Movement. _Invisible Man_ foreshadows the coming changes in racial identity in the sixties, Black Power, the Black Panthers, Nation of Islam and Malcolm X, etcetera. Baldwin doesn't do that. I suppose there's a correlation between it and the fact that the Civil Rights Movement's backbone is really the black church, as shown by Dr. King, but Ellison really sees something that's coming that hadn't been there before."

She holds up a finger to get your attention while she swallows. "But Marcus Garvey had a couple of million followers in the twenties," she says when her mouth is empty..

"That is true," you agree, smiling at her attempt to interject into your ramble. "But I still stand by the fact that though it though it was written - or, I should say, published - a year prior, _Invisible Man_ is a much more socially conscious novel. It really foretells what's going to happen in the next decade or so amongst African Americans."

"Maybe that's why everyone has to read it, not Baldwin, in high school," she reasons.

"Probably," you nod, taking a bite of your shepherd's pie and a sip of tea before continuing. "So I finally finished - what do you have today?"

"Same as yesterday - I didn't finish my Cather or read as much as I wanted to in the Pound I had with me. He is…"

"Opaque?" you laugh.

"A bit," she giggles, furrowing her lovely brow. "This is really good, by the way. You got so carried away with your discussion of Baldwin and Ellison that I didn't get a chance to thank you. It's wonderful. Though I have noticed you slipped me some fruit as well," she grins slyly, popping a strawberry in her mouth.

"I figured the vitamin c couldn't hurt you," you smirk back at her. 

"So nice to know my health and well being are on your mind," she shoots back with a grin. 

"Wouldn't want you to get scurvy or anything," you return, continuing to smirk at her. The literary chatter engaging her fully, and you can see her mind working, the levers moving in her mind as she keeps up with and tries to contribute to a conversation she doesn't know all sides of. 

"Last time I checked my name wasn't Horatio," she replies cheekily. 

"Touché," you concede, allowing her to win this round of your verbal skirmish. 

"Anyway," she beams at your concession, "I didn't finish my jaunt through immigrant Nebraska."

"Prairie literature isn't really my thing. I hate _Grapes of Wrath_," you reply. "_Tortilla Flats_, _Of Mice and Men_, and _Cannery Row_ all are wonderful, but escaping the Oklahoma dustbowl…so not my thing. I can understand how you didn't finish _My Ántonia_ last night. Both of those are as dry as the terrain they seek to describe."

"I think I tend to agree," she nods. "Though I hate to disparage a female author- I feel like I'm trashing the sisterhood."

"What, so no female author can be boring or not as good as hyped?" you laugh. "If I had that standard for my fellow males I would be up a creek." 

"Maybe, but men have been producing works of literature for centuries, millennia - even women haven't had as many chances to suck as your gender has," she reasons, her eyes twinkling you can tell by her twitching cheek that she's trying hard not to smile.

"Well, have you seen the recent research that ponders that Homer was a woman?" you volley back with a raised brow.

"Homer does not suck!" she gasps, her mouth hanging open in shock.

"Wasn't my point," you return drolly.

"Then do tell - what was your point?" she huffs.

"That maybe there are women over the centuries and millennia who have written under pseudonyms. We think they're men because we've always been told they're men, but they're really just concealing their true gender," you explain, poking at the bench seat between you. "Maybe the great writers of ancient times really were all women, and we just never knew that."

"You really believe that?" she asks, her voice dripping with skepticism and her brows raised.

"I didn't say I believed it," you reply, holding back a smile. "I'm saying perhaps it's something to think about," you explain, circling your finger through the air. "Maybe in trashing the sisterhood you're really just trashing someone that hid behind the concept of maleness, but was really female after all."

"That made no sense," she laughs.

"Didn't say it had to make sense; it still got you riled up," you smirk back at her, causing her cheeks to flush and turn a brilliant red for a moment.

"You have scones today?" she asks, changing the subject."I do, though I want to point out that it's now Logan - one, Rory - one, just to be fair," you return with a nudge to her knee, unable to stop the smirk that crawls across your face, pulling out the box that has the requested pastry inside.

"You're impossible," she mutters.

"I like to think irresistible," you shoot back.

"You must need to buy an extra ticket for your ego when you fly," she returns.

"Ouch," you laugh. "That was good."

"I do try, though I think you'll agree that it's now Logan - one, Rory - two," she grins.

"I concede to a superior jouster," you nod, with a hand to your chest.

"Scone, milady; jam and cream as well," you say, handing her the requested treat.

"So did you start _A Farewell to Arms_ yet?" she asks while she's putting jam and cream on her scone. 

"No, not yet," you shake your head. "I'm starting as soon as I get situated under the tree."

"I think it's my favorite Hemingway - or, actually, the only Hemingway I actually enjoy. It's so sad," she sighs.

"I've avoided it for years - too schmoopy for me, I'm very afraid," you reply. "But that's so typical. I think it's a chromosomal thing - if you're male you must like Uncle Ernest. Females automatically hate him. Too much testosterone."

"Somehow I'd believe that. I had an ongoing debate with someone about the merits of Hemingway - or, I should say, lack of merit I've tried to enjoy him, and just can't," she says with a shake of her head. "It's the machismo - every man wishes he could be Uncle Ernest, off on an adventure."

"Precisely," you nod.

"But _Farewell to Arms_ is so sad - Frederic and Catherine are destined for a tragic end," she sighs again. 

"My point exactly," you nod. "I'd rather be climbing San Juan Hill, fly fishing in Wyoming, or sailing off Key West"

"So you're a blood and guts kinda guy?" she asks, her nose wrinkling adorably.

"No, I'm just a guy. I think the need for action, adventure, blood and guts comes with the territory," you chuckle. "Doesn't mean I can't appreciate _Anna Karenina_ or _A Doll's House_, but that also doesn't mean I wouldn't rather be running with the bulls in _The Sun Also Rises_ or fighting Franco in _For Whom the Bell Tolls_. Though don't try to tell me you're a _Romeo and Juliet_ fan, because the whole star crossed lovers thing just does nothing for me."

"Oh, Ann and Count Vronsky have such a beautiful and tragic story - truly one of my favorites," she sighs again, lifting and dropping her shoulders. "And Ibsen, is so amazingly wonderful. You're making me not want to read what I'm supposed to be reading and just go lose myself in nineteenth century Russia, not Nebraska."

"I know we have a copy of _Anna Karenina_ in the library in our house, if you want me to get it for you," you offer.

"No, though the proposal is tempting, I have to decline. I need to finish this, and I'm nothing if not determined," she says, raising her chin. 

"Well, if you change your mind, let me know. I'll be right over there under the tree, trying to lose myself in the tragic doomed love story of Frederic and Catherine," you reply with a smile. 

"I never would have guessed where you were going to be," she returns cheekily.

"You know, I might just have to call you on your sassiness, little miss," you smirk back at her, while you fix yourself a scone, so you can go sit under the tree.

"Huh, I'd like to see you try," she shoots back, folding her arms over her chest.

"Is that a challenge?" you ask, one brow raised. "Because if it's a challenge, I'll have to accept. I never back down from a challenge!"

"Um," she replies, worrying her bottom lip and pulling on the sleeves of her cardigan - you've obviously stumped her. "I didn't say it was a challenge."

"I heard a challenge in there, quite distinctly," you lob back at her.

"No, no challenge," she says quickly.

"So you concede?" you question, feeling triumphant.

"What is there to concede?" she replies in a tone lacking conviction.

"I will take the high road, and not make you formally wave a white flag; however, I would like to point out, that it's now Rory - two, Logan - two," you grin triumphantly.

"Oh, go read your book," she mutters, opening hers firmly on her lap, and burying her head inside.

You can't help chuckling as you make your way over to the tree, which causes her to hum unmelodically. The verbal sparing making the blood race through your veins. She has beauty, wit, intelligence, and a shared love of letters. Possibly the perfect girl for you; too bad you're not looking for that.

Still, nothing in the last few days had led you to revise your opinion of her lack of worldliness; there is a gaucheness and guilelessness to her. Not in a negative sense – she just lacks a social veneer. She's not like Stephanie or Rosemary, who know exactly what they have to offer and who never meet a situation that makes them uncomfortable or self-conscious. They know who they are and what the score is at all times.

But then again, it's that naïveté that draws you back each day, that has been drawing you like a moth to a flame since you first spotted her. At first you wanted to know if it was real, or just a façade. Discovering it's real made you more and more curious, especially due to her interesting background, as to how deep it is makes you want to know how and why she is so untouched. How a world that had made you cynical and jaded by the time you learned to drive could somehow leave her so unscathed.

---

_This seems so unreal, like it can't be happening, but it is. He's so intelligent, he's funny, he's incredibly cute - how can he be real? He even, like Mom said about Jason, 'keeps up,' which is so rare. Even Jess couldn't always do that. We have such similar tastes in literature, which is so exciting. It's nice to meet someone that I can talk to about books and history, but who doesn't seem to think those things are geeky. _

I have this strange feeling that he wouldn't look at me twice if we met at Yale, that I'm not his type at all, but somehow here we connect perfectly. It's like a time out of reality, that in that garden each day we get to know one another like we've never gotten to know another person ever before. I'm connecting with another person like never before.

There has to be something wrong with him. He can't be this perfect, that's just not possible. No one is as perfect as he seems. But if he's not, then what are his faults? I'm not seeing them, not yet.

Speaking of Jess, though, why does every single boy who enjoys literature love Hemingway? He's not that great—he's actually kind of annoying! I guess that means that Logan's not perfect, after all. He loves Uncle Ernest. Typical male.

TBC 


	5. Day 9

**Day 9**

"You said you like anything that's bad for you, correct?" you ask, hoping she'll like what you've brought today.

"Yes, and if you have one of Luke's burgers in there, I might actually have to kiss you," she grins, her eyes twinkling.

"Tempting," you shoot back. "An offer I might just have to take you up on some time," you continue, causing her to blush. "But no, no burgers from Luke's today. How about fish and chips?"

"Oh, that sounds wonderful," she claps. "I've been wanting some, but Grandma turns her nose up at food that common. I think she frowns on deep frying, but Mom and I lived on fish and chips while we were in England last summer."

"You and your mom came here last summer?" you ask, handing her a newspaper shaped cone with the fried fish and chips inside.

"Yeah, after I graduated from Chilton, we backpacked through Europe together," she replies, popping a chip into her mouth. 

"You and your mom?" you question, never having heard of anything like it.

"Yeah, she had me really young, and I think she missed out on a lot of things because of it. Backpacking through Europe as a teen is one of them," she explains. "So we decided a long time ago that when I graduated from high school we would take our first trip to Europe together, backpacking, staying in hostels, generally living the life of tramps for a couple of months."

"You stayed in hostels?" you ask, surprised that Emily and Richard had allowed it. "How was that?"

"Pretty much sucked," she laughs. "Almost made us both wish we had taken Grandma and Grandpa up on the offer to do Europe in style. But I think everyone should do it on a wing and a prayer once."

"I'll take your word for it," you laugh back. "Vinegar?"

"Why would I need vinegar?" she asks, her nose wrinkling. 

"Malt vinegar," you explain. "You've had fish and chips and haven't had them with vinegar?"

"I was about to ask you were the mayonnaise was," she replies. 

"There is no mayonnaise," you rebuke gently. "You have to eat it with malt vinegar, otherwise it's not authentic. You want the true fish and chips experience, don't you, Miss 'I stayed in hostels'?"

"Fine," she huffs back. "I'll try a little with vinegar, if you insist, but if I don't like it, it's all your fault," she finishes, sticking her tongue out of the side of her mouth. You can think of a couple of things you'd like to do with that tongue, but refrain from suggesting any of them. 

"You've never backpacked through Europe?" she asks while you're putting vinegar on one piece of her fish and a few chips, so the rest won't be ruined if she hates it.

"No, I've backpacked, complete with unlimited Eurail pass, a couple of times with friends," you reply, handing her back her meal. "I've just never done the staying-in-hostels thing."

"So you backpack and then stay at the Ritz?" she questions with a chuckle.

"No," you laugh. "There are levels of service between the Ritz and a hostel, if you didn't know. We mostly stay at small inns out in the country and mid level hotels in the cities."

"So what, instead of the Savoy or Claridge's you stay at the Park Lane or Mayfair?" she shoots back, skepticism heavy in her voice. "Oh, this is really good," she says, enthusiastically tearing off a large piece of fish. "I need a napkin."

"I told you, and, no," you reply, reaching to find her a napkin. "Here you go. In London, we usually stay at The Gloucester or St. George's. Or Chelsea House if Colin remembers to call ahead to one of his former step siblings."

"Colin?" she questions around the food in her mouth.

"One of my best friends. He has former relatives that live here in London and are members," you explain. 

"That's very chi-chi," she lobs back. 

"I never claimed that I didn't enjoy the comforts and privileges of the station to which I was born," you defend. "I never claimed that I haven't stayed at the Ritz or the Savoy. I have, and when I spend a decadent weekend in New York I usually stay at the Pierre. And there have been times when I have been completely blasé about the amount of money I threw around, coming close to incurring my dad's wrath for actually spending too much. I'm just saying that when we backpack we try to not go overboard with the luxuries," you finish, popping a piece of fish in your mouth.

"To be more like the hoi-polloi," she giggles.

"Yes, to tap into my bourgeois side," you chuckle, nodding your agreement.

"You have a bourgeois side?" she questions with a raised brow, her skepticism evident.

"I can pretend with the best of them," you shoot back.

"Oh I'm sure," she laughs, rolling her eyes. 

"Didn't you say you went to Chilton? And you're at Yale now, so you're not doing that badly," you reply, a bit on the defensive.

"Both paid for by the grandparents," she replies smoothly, which answers a few of your questions. You knew her mother had run away from Hartford and Emily and Richard not long after Rory was born, and that there wasn't a great deal of contact through the years, but she had gone to one of the top prep schools in the city.

"I'm not saying we're paupers, at least not now, and my mom just opened an inn with her best friend, but for years things were very tight. We didn't even move off the property of the inn where Mom worked till I was twelve," she details. "I know what doing without is like. That's how I grew up."

"Well, then, at least you have grandparents that are willing to pay for you to go to schools worthy of your intellect," you reply, then change the subject. "Did you finish the Cather?"

"I did," she nods.

"And?" you question back.

"It didn't really improve for me," she replies, after swallowing. "I actually think their lives - Jim, Ántonia, even Lena Lindgard - their lives were actually interesting. I enjoyed the explorations of the intersecting lives, but what I didn't get into was the whole hardworking immigrants bonding with and taming the land. Though if women had as much freedom as Cather says they did, it was a much freer society than the more traditional and I guess easier ones back east, or further east."

"I actually think that was pretty true," you return. "I took a class on the settling of the west during my sophomore year, and life was… I don't think I'd say that it was better, but it was equally difficult on the female settlers as it was on the men," you explain, gesturing with your hands to imply the wide-open vistas of the unsettled west. "Once you settled into the more 'civilized' versions of society, men and women assumed their more traditional gender roles. I'm not sure life was better for women on the prairie, but it was more equal.

"Have you ever watched _Deadwood_?" you continue.

"No," she answers.

"Well, it's a very egalitarian society," you explain. "The bank is owned by a woman, which grants her some status in the town, a good deal of stature, in fact. But when push comes to shove, she is still a woman, and she still needs the muscle of the men to maintain order and bring those that would take advantage of her to justice," you continue, breaking off a piece of scone and popping it in your mouth. "It takes place in South Dakota. It's an interesting show; I think the medium of television does a better job of bringing the hardscrabble life of prairie settlers to life and making it interesting. You don't have to read the descriptions of the dust and grime and toiling; it's all right there on screen."

"I might have to check it out when I get home," she answers. "Is it on dvd?"

"I don't think so - not yet, at least - but I'll check and let you know," you offer."Thank you," she smiles.

"So if you finished your time in rural Nebraska, where are you heading today?" you inquire.

"Joseph Heller, _Catch 22_," she says, showing you the distinctive bright blue and red paperback.

"Yossarian lives!" you exclaim. "That is one of my absolute favorite books _ever_! Have you ever read it?"

"Actually, no," she shakes her head. "It's one I've meant to get to - it's on my list of 'you must read,' and one of my boyfriends in high school loved it - it was one of his favorite books, too - but for some reason, I never have. I was actually really excited when I saw it on the list for my class - it finally gives me an excuse to take the time to read it."

"You're in for a treat, he was definitely right," you grin, wanting to ask about the unnamed ex, but deciding not to. "It really is an amazing read. Yossarian, Colonel Cathcart, Milo Minderbender, Major Major Major, Major blank de Coverley…you're going to love it, I promise!" you enthuse. "I can't wait to hear what you think of it. I think I've read it at least five times, and every time I find something new that amazes or confounds me, that I swear I've never remembered reading before."

"Five times?" she asks. "How old were you the first time you read it?"

"Thirteen, I think," you say after a moment, trying to remember. "I'd have to check my literary journals to be completely certain. But I'm pretty sure I was thirteen the first time I read it. It really is amazing. Your ex has good taste."

"He did - in literature, anyway," she laughs with a sardonic tone. "It's not like I have a string of exes sitting around, just two, but one was a bookworm, just like me."

"Ah," you smile, the information seeming to affirm your view of her as at least semi untouched. "Well, you're in for a treat. I can't wait to hear what you think. The sequel, _Closing Time_, is even pretty good. Speaking of that, this garden tends to get really crowded on the weekend. I was wondering if you can maybe go do something out in the city with me tomorrow, if it doesn't seem to forward of me to ask."

"No, not at all," she beams. "I'll have to check with Grandma just to make sure, or to be able to be free, something, but I'd love to. It's so funny - ironic, not haha - but I feel like we've really gotten to know one another these last three or four days, and yet we haven't even ventured five feet in either direction of this bench."

"That's so true," you chuckle. "We can adventure the day away, if you like. I'm not sure what time you can get away, or how long Emily will let you stay out, but I'm pretty much free as a bird for the entire day."

"I'll ask her at dinner tonight. Is there some way that I can get ahold of you?" she queries.

"I'll give you the number for my cell - if I don't answer, just leave a voice mail. I'll check them and either call you back or you can call me back a couple of hours later," you say, getting out a pen to write the number down on a piece of a napkin. "What number should I expect it from?"

"I have no clue what the number is at the house," she laughs sheepishly, a blush flushing her creamy skin. "But I'm really looking forward to going adventuring. I went out a lot by myself in Rome, Paris, and Florence, but this garden and the company of a good book beckoned me here, and if I hadn't decided to read instead of going off on my own, I wouldn't have met you," she smiles, the blush getting deeper in her cheeks.

"I think that's a pretty good tradeoff, me as opposed to deepening your cultural knowledge," you laugh with a smirk.

"You really do think pretty highly of yourself?" she giggles.

"Confidence," you laugh again, the smirk growing. "Plus, if I hadn't been equally drawn to the garden and written word, I wouldn't have met you either, which I think would have been a great misfortune. I think meeting one Rory Gilmore was the highlight of my summer, maybe even my year off."

"You really do need to stop with the compliments," she blushes again.

"I should only stop if they're not true, but they are, so I can't stop. Maybe you just need to learn to accept a sincere compliment," you return, knocking her knee with your knuckle. "As for tomorrow," you continue, changing the subject when her cheeks flame up again, "while I think you look lovely," you say, waving your hand to indicate her colorful pink, red and white sundress and cardigan, "I think you can dress down if you want to. Not that I'm trying to dictate wardrobe."

"Grandma likes me to maintain a ladylike wardrobe," she giggles, her hand going over her mouth. "I do have plenty of other things to wear. Not a ton with me, but enough that I think I can manage something more relaxed and youthful."

"Sounds perfect," you smile back, wondering what her legs look like in a pair of jeans or tailored trousers. "Oh, instead of scones - and if you hate me for not bringing them, I promise we'll get some tomorrow - I brought clotted creams."

"Mmmm, caramels," she replies, her eyes lighting up. "I think with all the fish and chips that will be perfect."

"You ate every single bit," you laugh, still completely amazed at her appetite even though you've been seeing it in action for three days straight.

"Gilmorian metabolism. If I ever have kids it is the one thing I insist they must inherit," she grins.

"It does seem to be a scientific marvel," you laugh back, your thoughts conjuring up the image of Rory pregnant, making you smile. 

"Really, it is!" she exclaims, the grin on her face seeming to want to split it open. "So what's on tap for you today? Still in World War I Italy?"

"No, I finished this morning and I enjoyed it more than I thought I would. Uncle Ernest doesn't disappoint. No snide remarks from the peanut gallery, but it still wasn't my cup of tea," you say, reaching around to get your new book. "I knew it was going to end badly, and tragic, doomed romance just isn't normally my thing. Though I'm not sure this is either - I'm starting _Brave New World_ by Aldous Huxley."

"Okay, not for an American Lit class, obviously," she replies with a raised brow.

"No," you shake your head. "It's for an ethics class I'm probably taking, and it's been on my to-read list for a while. If nothing else, it will make me think about some things I probably haven't before."

"It's supposed to be provocative, if nothing else," she nods. "You'll have to tell me what you think, since I've never read it either."

"I will. If I finish it before you leave I'll let you borrow it, and you can read it on the plane home, or wherever," you offer. "You can always give it back to me when we get back to school, though really you don't have to return it. Just a good excuse to make sure we see each other again."

"I think that's guaranteed," she smiles shyly, the blush creeping back into her cheeks.

"Speaking of my book, I should get started," you say, moving to sit under what you've come to think of as 'your tree,' as it's 'her bench.'

Just like for the last four days you read in companionable silence for the next hour and a half, each of you sneaking glances at the other. She opens the caramels every so often, eating them casually as she reads. 

You've grown familiar with the way she bites the edge of her lip when she's reading something that makes her nervous, her current selection making her do that quite often, the quiet chuckle she makes when something mildly amuses her. Today that's mixed with a few small gasps and full laughs, which is appropriate given what she's reading. You wonder, and almost ask where she is, which part is causing the reactions, but decide to wait till tomorrow when she's gotten further into the novel. 

When she finally gets up to head back inside she says, "I'm really loving it so far. I can't believe I've never read it before. What was I thinking?"

"I have no idea. It's a modern classic for a reason," you smile. "It's brilliant."

"It really is," she smiles back. "I'll call you later this evening, and I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'll be waiting for your call," you reply. "We'll figure out where to meet when we talk."

"Okay," she says, turning to leave. "Enjoy the rest of your afternoon or evening."

"I shall," you return, watching her till she disappears behind the gate of the house where she's staying.

---

_I realized today when I brought up Jess that I'm supposed to love Dean. I chose Dean. I realize talking about literature and books naturally makes me think of Jess, but I haven't even thought of Dean in a couple of days - my head has been so full of Logan. He's this crazy combination of cocky, thoughtful, full of himself, funny, intelligent, and cute that I'm finding more and more irresistible. Today when he touched my knee, I felt like a spark had gone off._

But I'm not supposed to feel this way. I told Dean that I love him; he loves me, no matter what's going on with Lindsay. And yet, my mind is completely filled with Logan - everything else is being crowded out. Part of it is the newness, I know. But then when we sit on the bench and talk, it's like we've known each other for years, as if we're two old friends catching up, and it makes me feel completely comfortable around him, as much as I'm always very aware of him, the way his eyes twinkle, the way he smiles, that infuriating smirk of his. 

I think his eyes are my favorite thing about him. The way they're just brimming with mirth, there's no maliciousness there, just intelligence, fearlessness, and this irreverent view of life and the world. It makes me want to know how he sees the world like he does, to see it through his eyes, to experience it with him.

Which is why I'm so excited about tomorrow. We're leaving our little haven. It's scary, to an extent, but exhilarating too. We're going to go have an adventure together, even if it is just dickering with vendors at the stalls on Portobello Road. No matter what we do, I have a feeling it will make me see things completely differently than I had before, even if I've been there in the past, which reminds me of Mom, the way she looks at life, laughs at life. There seem to be no boundaries to Logan in life, and it's not just the fact that he was born with money. It's his outlook, the way he sees the world. I want to know what that's like…

…We ended up talking for two hours, about everything and nothing. We like a lot of the same movies, it seems, besides having some similar tastes in literature. It's been a really long time, if ever, that I've felt this comfortable with someone else, much less a boy. I did, eventually, with Jess. But I only met Logan four days ago, and yet, I feel like I've known him for years. Known him well for years. How did that happen? 

I can't wait for tomorrow.

TBC 


	6. Day 10

**AN**: first off, I always must thank my beta, **fulfilled**. The level of awesome she is, well it's pretty much indescribable. Secondly, sorry for the delay, work and life, well I have no life right now, but work is crazy and will remain so for the next month. So the delay was unavoidable. Third, a friend told me after the last time I posted this, I should attach a don't read while hungry note to this story. So...yeah...don't read while hungry, they eat a lot. Fourth, I've tried to answer all the comments/reviews that y'all have left me, though I can't reply to anon ones, or no email notification goes out. So I just want to say, I do greatly appreciate all comments and reviews left. They make me feel loved and appreciated. Finally, hope you enjoy, I've very much so enjoyed writing this. There's one more part (two days) to go, but the story is starting to get near the finish line, which does feel good.

**Day 10**

"Good morning, fair maiden," you call out, approaching the corner where Rory is waiting on you. She looks completely different from how you've become used to thinking of her, hair flowing around her shoulders, with an appropriately demure knee-covering skirt and cardigan. Today her hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, and she's wearing a three-quarter-length sleeve button up shirt, cut close to her body, with green and white with purple - or maybe they're pink, you're not quite sure - flowers of some sort on it; form fitting jeans that hug every one of her very lovely slender curves, and a pair of old, beat up tennis shoes. Yes, casual clothes suit her - they suit her very well. You can't wait to get a look at her from behind in those jeans, you think wickedly. You're sure the view will be just as nice.

"I hope you'll forgive me for being a couple of minutes late - I was getting you coffee. I was going to get you something to eat as well, but time ran out," you explain, handing her the large paper cup you have in your hand.

"That's all right," she smiles, taking the cup from you and taking a tentative sip. "This is actually good," she smiles, after swallowing.

"I had them put a double shot of espresso in it," you chuckle. "Figured that would make it strong enough."

"Mmm, it did," she says appreciatively after taking another sip.

"I was going to try to get you some pastries," you apologize, "but didn't end up having time, so we'll just have to see if we can find a street vendor or a shop with something, since you enjoy food so much," you chuckle, getting a tap on the elbow from her.

"I do not eat that much!" she exclaims in mock outrage.

"Really, you do," you laugh. "I'm not complaining though. You're the first girl I've met in I don't know how long that actually eats."

"It's not like I'm fat!" she blusters.

"I never said you were fat," you defend. "You're not - you have a lovely figure. I just said you actually eat. Most of the girls I know think a lunch of celery sticks and lettuce leaves with a dash of lemon juice is packing it in. Carrot sticks are actually considered gluttonous - they're carbs. It's refreshing to see someone who actually enjoys food without freaking out over the calorie count every five seconds."

"Well, when you put it like that, I might have to not take offense," she grins. "I had breakfast, but I could always do with a snack, if you see something, holler."

"I'll be sure and keep a sharp eye out," you laugh.

"So," she says after a moment. "Where are we heading today?"

"I thought we could play it by ear, see where the day takes us," you answer back, sweeping an arm forward to indicate that she should head down the sidewalk. You pause a moment before following her, taking a moment to appreciate what is quickly becoming one of your favorite things - the view of Rory walking away. The view from behind is just as enticing as the one from the front; form-fitting jeans very much suit the shape of one Rory Gilmore.

"Did you have anything in particular you wanted to look at?" you ask after a few minutes of companionable silence. "I know there's some handmade jumper vendors that my sister loves to visit whenever she's here."

"You have a sister?" she questions.

"I didn't realize I hadn't brought Honor up," you chuckle, nodding. "I honestly thought I had, since she's the reason I'm here to begin with."

"She is?" she replied, her forehead wrinkling in confusion. "I didn't realize she was here."

"Oh, she's not," you laugh with a shake of your head. "No, I've been cooling my heels for days waiting on her to tear herself away from Josh, her boyfriend, in Ibiza. We're supposed to be going hiking on Skye for a few days before I head home to get ready to go back to school."

"I take it you get along?" she questions.

"Yeah," you nod with a smile. "If I'm sane or the least bit normal it's all because of Honor. She was really there for me when we were kids - well, and as I've gotten older too," you laugh, recalling the recent yacht sinking and Honor's part in saving your ass.

"Really? That's kinda fascinating," she smiles back at you. "I've never really thought about it, but most of my friends, at least my close ones, are all only children."

"Oh my God, my childhood would have been a living nightmare had I been an only child," you moan with a shake of your head. "The ever changing merry-go-round of nannies, Dad always away on business, a huge house to rattle around in and get lost. I think I could have hidden for months and no one would have noticed."

"Where was your mom?" she asks.

"Mom was there; actually she rather dotes on me - I can get away with anything with her," you grin. You could go into the fact that your mother loves you because your father ignores her most of the time so you're her Mitchum substitute, but you don't. Getting into the inner workings and machinations of the Huntzberger clan seems futile at this point. Maybe if you get to know Rory better one day she'll learn about them, but that day isn't today. "Anyway, yeah, Honor's why I'm here," you smile, closing the subject of your family.

"And you're going hiking?" she queries, making you nod in return. "I think that's so cool - the going somewhere with your sister part. The hiking seems a little excessive.

"Don't like hiking?" you ask.

"Don't like exercise," she grins, her eyes sparkling. "But, like I said, most of my good friends are only children. My best friend Lane - we've known each other since the first day of kindergarten - is an only child, too," she smiles. And then so is Paris - she's my roommate - I've known her since I first went to Chilton - she was practically raised by her nanny. Actually, her nanny is who came to our graduation at Chilton, not her parents. I didn't realize till I got to know her that people really had parental substitutes in nannies, but she does. Her parents are still married, but they were never around."

"She's your roomie?" you ask, since you assume you'll be meeting her when the semester gets underway.

"Yeah, she's…" Rory starts laughing. "Paris is uniquely crazy and intense. I would say more, but I wouldn't want to deprive you of your own first impression, but she does a very good imitation of a Mack Truck, if I do say so myself."

"Really," you laugh. You haven't really thought about who you imagine Rory's roommate to be, but haven't thought it would be someone that sounded like she was the complete polar opposite of Rory. 

"Yes, really," she giggle. "But other than one of my exes, I really wasn't ever close to anyone that had siblings; it's not something I've really experienced up close to know if I was missing out on something. Of course, my mom and I are as close as sisters. She's my best friend."

"See, now that's something I can't imagine," you chuckle. "The only bonding experience I've ever had with my dad is a shared love of sailing."

"Well, that's something, at least," she replies.

"Yeah, I guess," you agree, not wanting to elaborate. "Okay," you say, putting your hand on the curve of her back as you approach Portobello Road, which is jammed with street vendors, "where do you want to go? What do you want to look at?"

"I don't know, can we just see what's here and look around?" she asks eagerly, turning to look at you over her shoulder.

"Yes, that's fine," you laugh. It reminds you of Honor's enthusiasm when she discovers a new shop or designer. Everything must be explored. 

You could take your hand off her back - really, you probably should. But your hand feels so natural, settled at the curve of the small of her back. The fact that it feels like it belongs there should bother you, but somehow it doesn't. Of course, a lot of things about this should bother you, if you're being completely honest with yourself, beginning with the fact that you still haven't hit on her yet, not really.

Because unlike, say, Stephanie, you're actually interested in her. A part of you would like to take a chance, throw caution to the wind, and kiss her like you want to, but you've held back. You want to know what it would be like to kiss her. You'd like to slowly peel away the layers of her clothes and find out if her skin is as soft and silky as you imagine it is. But there's still that innocence you see in her eyes, and the lifting sadness. She has emotional depths that you just aren't ready for - not yet, anyway. Or maybe you just don't want to deal with them. You like your life the way it is, surrounded by close friends, Colin, Finn, Stephanie, Lanny, and a few others. The girls that chase you relentlessly are easy to keep outside of that tight circle. 

None of the girls are under the illusion that they exist for anything more than an easy lay, fleeting companionship, and nothing more. They know the score as well. They're using you - a couple of nice meals and if you keep them around for more than a week, some nice parting gifts, and nothing more. 

Rory's the first girl you've ever met who makes you want to adjust the balance of your life - or has made you actually think about it, maybe step outside your safety zone, because you want her to get to know your friends. You think she'd get along well with Stephanie, and that Steph would think she was great too - not to mention Colin and Finn, who would probably adopt her on sight. 

But you still can't imagine trying to integrate her into your life, because doing that would mean parading your latest 'companion' in front of her, which you have no desire to do. You don't want the decadence of your life to touch her, spoil her, or make her jaded like you are. Something in her brings out a protective side of you that you've never experienced before. She makes you want to hold her in your arms and shield her from the world, which scares you shitless. It's so not you.

It means at some point, and probably pretty soon, you're going to have to make a choice you've never had to make. How to deal with a girl you really would like to get to know, but also want to be with. She's not like Steph - you don't just want her as a pal. You want more, but have no idea what that means, how to ask for it, or how to do it. You have a bad feeling you're going to fail…

"Logan, look!" Rory's eager exclamation pulls you out of your reverie. 

"What?" you question, no clue as to what's gotten her so excited. You've been looking at antique silver stalls and at tortoise shell boxes for a while. She had refused to buy any of the latter, declaring them beautiful, but cruel.

"It's an original poster of U2 at the Palladium!" she enthusiastically replies, holding it up for you to see.

"That's very cool," you reply. "What else do they have?"

"I don't know, but my mom would _love_ this," she grins, turning back to the stall to look for more hidden treasures. Her enthusiasm amuses you and adds to her appeal, and you wonder at this point if there really is anything about her that would detract from it. You know you're infatuated with her, which is a bizarre state of being for you; you've never been infatuated with anyone, ever. 

"Okay, if you were a Bangles-and Go-Gos-obsessed woman who grew up in the eighties, which one would you prefer?" she asks, holding up the U2 poster and another one of The Clash. "She would love both of them. There's one of the Velvet Underground too, I'm going to get it for Lane," she continues, pointing over to the wooden box she'd been going through, "which is really cool. But I can't afford three. I can't afford two, really, but I'll manage, so you have to help me choose."

"Get all three, I'll pay," you offer.

"No, I can't let you do that," she answers with a shake of her head, taking you aback, and circling you around to the debate you've just been having with yourself. Is there anything about her that doesn't appeal to you, doesn't draw you in further, and make you want to know her more? Because girls never turn down your offers to pay. Every one of them that you'd ever met happily let you whip out money or the Black Card and pay. "It's a gift for my mom, and I can afford one of them, just not both. So help me choose," she repeats, shaking the posters.

"Seriously, Rory, I can pay for them - get all three," you insist.

"_Seriously_, Logan, no," she replies firmly. "I can pay for my own gifts."

"Well, then, fine," you return, a mixture of amusement and frustration in your voice. "Aren't all women predisposed to be at least a little in love with Bono?"

"Of course," she grins. "Fantastic logic, decision made," she says, going over to put away the Clash poster before paying the vendor for the U2 and Velvet Underground ones.

"Mom is going to love me for getting this for her," she trills, bouncing over to stand next to you. "I'm the best daughter!"

"That is a pretty cool gift, I would have to agree," you grin back at her enthusiasm. 

"I did good!" she grins. "Okay, where to next?"

"I don't know; did you have anything specific you wanted to look at?" you ask.

"No, nothing specific," she shakes her head. "I guess we can just play it by ear."

"That's fine, though there is a tattoo parlor over there if you want to get my name inked into your flesh as a souvenir of your time in London," you point with a smirk.

"Tempting…but no," she replies with a blank face, though her eyes are twinkling with laughter.

You spend the next couple of hours looking at odd assortments of antiques of every variety and handmade crafts. Rory buys a couple of carved boxes for her friends, and you get an antique hand-drawn map from the eighteenth-century and a model sailing ship. While she's looking at fountain pens you hear her stomach rumble, reminding you that neither of you have really had much to eat today.

"Hey, I know a place we can get something to eat that I think you'll love," you suggest.

"Oh, food!" she exclaims, her eyes lighting up.

"You like food," you chuckle.

"Food is my friend," she sighs.

"Let's go get something in your stomach," you reply, putting your hand back at the base of her spine, directing where you want her to go.

"The Brown Derby?" she questions as you usher her inside. 

"Yep, best burgers in London," you grin.

"You're joking!" she exclaims.

"Nope, I'm serious," you nod, ushering her to a booth. "Homemade burgers, little wedge fries. It's been here forever, you just have to know where it is."

"There are phones to order on," she laughs, sliding into the booth.

"Yeah, it's been the exact same since the fifties, I believe," you reply. "When you know what you want you just pick up the phone and order. Do you know what you want? I do already."

"What are you getting?" she asks eagerly.

"Cheeseburger basket - that's a cheeseburger and fries - with a cherry-vanilla Coke," you return.

"Oh, I want the same," she says eagerly. "That sounds yummy!"

"Do you want to do the ordering?" you ask, holding the handset of the phone out to her.

"Oooohhh, thank you," she grins, taking the phone and ordering for both of you.

"So tell me all about _Brave New World_," she requests, putting the phone back in its cradle. "Is it what you imagined?"

"Actually, it's nothing like I imagined," you admit after a moment of thinking about it. "I think I'd assumed it had to do with genetic engineering, but it has nothing to do with that at all. It was actually written a couple of decades before Watson and Crick discovered the double helix."

"Really?" she asks, surprise obvious in her voice.

"Yup," you nod. "It was published in nineteen-thirty-two-long before the concept of DNA had entered the public consciousness. It's more about utopian society that's a bit mad, or very mad, I guess. I've only gotten through the first six chapters, which is the first section of the book. It takes place in London in the twenty-sixth century, but there's a single world state. Sex is easy, but not used for procreation - that's done in laboratories. Henry Ford is kinda like God. There's this narcotic that reminds me of what people are doing to their kids today with Ritalin that's used to sustain a euphoric state, but it also sublimates your natural urges. 

"I'm not far enough into it to really know, but I think it's supposed to be anti Marxist, there's a guy named Bernard Marx and a woman Lenina Crowne, but they're the protagonists so far. So I'm not sure how it's anti-Marxist yet. But the singularity of thought, repression of urges, except sex is readily available and encouraged, and people that don't conform are sent to reservations, which are reminiscent of the Stalinist gulags."

"When did you say it was published?" she interrupts. 

"Nineteen-thirty-two," you reply, as the waitress sets your food between you. You watch her put a tiny bit of mustard and ketchup, nothing else, on her burger, and take a bite.

"Oh my God, this is so good," she says after swallowing. 

"I told you, best burgers in London," you grin.

"You weren't kidding," she replies eagerly, hitting the ketchup bottle to get some to come out for her fries. "Salt and pepper?" she asks.

"Please, no fry is complete without both," you agree.

"You know it," she grins. "I'm glad you knew about this place - this burger is almost as good as Luke's, and I don't think I've ever had cherry-vanilla soda before. Luke doesn't do exotic."

"The original owner was a Dough Boy from World War II who apparently fell in love with an English girl and never left. He opened this place because he wanted something that reminded him of home," you explain. "My grandfather brought me here the first time I remember coming."

"Well, thanks for sharing it with me today," she smiles. "I'm an admitted cheeseburger addict. The gulags are after nineteen-thirty-two, though, aren't they?"

"Yes and no," you say after the moment it takes you to realize she's returned to what you'd been talking about before falling in love with her cheeseburger. "I'm pretty sure, though I need to look it up, that they were employed to cleanse Russia of those who didn't agree with the Bolsheviks after the Revolution in nineteen-seventeen, but they didn't come to light till Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn wrote about them in _The Gulag Archipelago_. Stalin is in power through World War II, comes to power in twenty-eight. I'm not sure what the correlation is; I'm going to have to keep going to see if it makes sense, because at this point, it kinda doesn't. I think I need to do a bit of internet research tonight, to get some context," you finish, taking a large bite of your burger.

"So, tell me more about your sister," she suggests after a moment.

"About Honor?" you question back, because no one really ever asks about Honor. Your friends all know her and take for granted how close you are, and the girls who move in and out of your life could care less. You wouldn't introduce them to her anyway, at least not as anything more than what they were, your for-now companions.

"Yes, Honor," she nods. "What's she like? How old is she? Do you look alike? I don't know-tell me about her," she grins.

"She's three years older than me. Yes, we look alike, or at least related. She's blonde and has brown eyes, just like me," you chuckle, a picture of Honor coming to your mind. Rory looks fascinated by your description, focusing on you while unconsciously eating the last of her fries. "She's a little ditzy and bubbly - lives a bit of a blonde life, but smart too; you shouldn't underestimate her. I think she uses her blondeness to fool people, they think she's a ding-a-ling and then she's got 'em. She's going to make a great mom someday. Really, I don't know how to describe her. She's amazing, the person I'm probably closest to in the world, and like I said, any sanity I have can be credited to her."

"I'd love to meet her someday," she smiles, reaching over to take a drink.

"I'd love to introduce you to her sometime," you reply with a sardonic smile, because you would like for them to meet someday. It's just a matter of in what capacity.

As your friend, and you would consider the two of you friends by now, you have every intention of heading over to Branford to see her when you moved back on campus. But you can't imagine dating Rory - that would mean adding her to your harem, and that isn't what you want. Rory's different. She's not a girl you take out to dinner for a reciprocal fuck at the end of the night, then get dressed and leave in the middle of the night. She's the kind of girl you settle down for, make plans with, and cherish, but just the thought of any of those things makes your insides go a bit cold. You're nowhere near ready for that, not with Rory, not with anyone. Maybe if you'd met in five or seven years, you might jump at the prospect; right now, it doesn't fit with who you are or how you live your life. Not right now.

Which leaves you with a conundrum, between a rock and a hard place. What the hell are you going to do with her once you're both back at school? Stick her on a shelf and hope like hell no one else asks her out? You can't imagine having to put up with some of your friends dating her…touching her. It might be the height of hypocrisy, but while you might not want that for yourself yet, it felt like nails on a chalkboard imagining her with someone else. She deserves someone that treats her like a princess, even if you don't want to think about who that prince might be, and she certainly won't find him amongst your friends.

"Why don't we get out of here - there's more shopping to be done," you suggest, pulling yourself out of your own reflection.

"Okay," she agrees, picking up the check to look at it.

"I'll pay, my treat," you say, pulling it out of her hands.

"I can pay for myself," she says with a shake of her head.

"You haven't let me pay for anything today; I think I can pay for your lunch," you return, getting money out of your pocket.

"Fine," she huffs, pouting. You catch yourself before you tell her to not jut out her lip unless she plans on using it.

Once you've paid and are back out on the street, she suggests going to find the handmade jumper vendors you had told her about, and then determinedly returns the subject to Honor, "You're supposed to go somewhere with your sister?"

"Yeah," you nod, "we're supposed to spend several days hiking and trekking in Skye, no comments from the peanut gallery. Maybe do some sailing, though the water up there is really choppy. We're going to play it by ear."

"So why haven't you gone?" she quizzes.

"Well, I would have missed your marvelous company," you smirk at her. 

"Shut up," she volleys back, with a little tap of her fingers against your stomach, causing the skin under your shirt to tingle. 

"She's in Ibiza with her boyfriend, who at some point soon should become her fiancé," you return. "Apparently he's better company than me, and she can't tear herself away."

"Ahhh, you got thrown overboard for sun, love and sex," she laughs. 

"Exactly. Trekking and hiking with her brother apparently isn't quite as exciting as dancing the night away with Josh and having him rub suntan lotion on her," you laugh back. "Though I have a hard time imagining Josh dancing the night away."

"He's not like Honor?" she asks.

"He's quieter, but they make a good pairing," you reply. 

"Compliment one another?" she questions.

"Yeah," you nod. "They do." It scares you slightly, especially since you're sure they're heading for the altar fairly soon, that the things that make Josh work for Honor are some of the same qualities that draw you to Rory. Her quiet intelligence compliments your more forthright and bold one.

You shake your head, attempting to shake loose of this contemplative mood and get a hold of your thoughts and emotions. 

"Handmade sweaters - or, as you insist on calling them, jumpers?" she asks hopefully, bouncing on her toes.

"Something wrong with referring to them as jumpers?" you ask with a cock of your brow.

"British snobbery," she shoots with a wrinkle of her nose.

"So sorry I insist on using the proper term," you lob back a bit defensively. Honor and Stephanie would love that she doesn't put up with your shit. "But, yes, I know several places Honor has gotten ones she loves," you nod. "Let's head back over to Portobello Road and see if we can find the vendors I remember," you instruct, guiding her the way you want her to go.

"Oh, look at this one," she says after a couple of disappointing vendors, holding up a brown cardigan with a white yoke and small pink flowers on it. Not really something you would pick, but she seems to find it eye-catching. "I like it; it's different, but pretty too."

"Well, why don't you get it then?" you suggest.

"I think I will," she nods, shifting her bags around to get her money. You don't bother to volunteer to pay; you know she'll turn you down.

"Okay," she says, bouncing back over to you once she's paid for her cardigan, "next vendor." 

She finds a soft pink cabled cardigan - or maybe it's not cabled, but it's pretty; even you can admit that - several vendors later, and a lightweight, delicate, webbish cardigan that she thinks her mother will like, and urges you to get a dark green cabled jumper for yourself. "I think it would look nice on you," she says, making up your mind for you. 

"Where to next?" she asks after you've both paid. 

"I don't know - did you have anything in mind?" you reply.

"I think I saw some glassware back up the road," she points.

"Well, then, let's see what we can find," you suggest, "lead the way." 

She finds several antique inkwells and fountain pen sets that she likes, deciding to get one for herself and one for Richard. She picks his out with great care, looking over the small vials and pens carefully before deciding on which to get and paying for them. You realize several more hours have gone by, and it's turning to evening now. Emily will probably want her back soon.

"I don't want today to end," you blurt out, before you can think to stop yourself. You can see the surprise in her eyes when she looks up, which is belayed by the small beginnings of a smile and slight nod of her head.

"I don't either," she replies softly.

"Do you like Indian food?" you ask hopefully.

"Yes," she grins back. "Just not inside, because of…"

"The smell," you finish together, making you both laugh.

"You're going to have to trust me," you say. "I know this great place up near Regent's Park, but it's vegetarian."

"You know how I am about vegetables," she replies skeptically, her nose scrunching up adorably.

"I know; that's why I brought it up before we ever headed up there," you chuckle. "I promise you it's wonderful, and if you hate it I'm sure you can come up with an appropriate punishment to mete out."

"I could declare it horrific, enjoy it, and still get to think up some punishment," she returns, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

"I don't think that will be an issue," you reply confidently.

"Pretty sure of yourself," she mocks.

"I promise it's fantastic, and have I made a wrong culinary turn since we've met?" you ask with a raised brow. "Their eggplant and dal dishes are fantastic and they make great naan. It will be a good counterbalance to the cholesterol and calorie fest we had at lunch."

"I'm not crazy about eggplant," she replies skeptically, her brow raised a bit.

"I _promise_," you return, holding up three fingers. "Scout's honor," you swear, wearing what you hope is your most innocent expression.

"Somehow I can't quite picture you as a boy scout," she giggles. "You're certainly no Michael Vaughn."

"Pshaw," you scoff. You have no idea what she's talking about, but aren't going to ask, either, so you just grab her bag-laden hand, noting how perfectly it fits into yours, but pushing it aside as you pull her toward a side street where you can hail a taxi.

The ride goes by in a companionable silence, broken only occasionally by one or the other of you pointing out a passing landmark, or the occasional grumbling about 'we should have taken the Tube,' because of the early Saturday evening traffic.

"I'll go order the food," you offer once you're outside the small take-away restaurant. 

"Aren't you going to ask if I like spicy?" she queries as you start to walk away.

"I figured since you already said you like Indian, you must like spicy," you reply over your shoulder. It takes a few minutes to order and pay, then you join her on the bench she's found.

"It's going to be a few minutes," you inform her.

"You know, I hadn't noticed it before, but you're very presumptuous about my eating habits," she says, a teasing lilt in her voice. "You just order stuff, or bring it to me, and assume that I'm going to enjoy it."

"Well," you draw out, "you've liked everything I've 'presumed' you would enjoy thus far," you chuckle, air quoting as you say 'presumed.' "I'd say I've done a pretty good job with regard to your tastes in food."

"Hmmm, maybe, but you're still presumptuous," she replies crisply.

"Okay," you return a bit nervously, shifting on the bench, "are you thinking you've come up with some great insight into my psyche though the fact that I've ordered food for you?"

"I hadn't really thought about it till you went up and ordered without even asking me what I like - it's not like the other times when you brought food for us," she replies, her eyes twinkling. "But as I was sitting here I realized that your ego must be massive. You just assume that you're going to know exactly what I'm going to like. You didn't even bother to ask me what my preferences might be, or even if I have any."

"I…I…I…" you sputter - she's caught you off guard. "I just…assumed that since you've liked everything…"

"Yes, you assumed," she cuts you off.

"But haven't you liked the stuff I've gotten you thus far?" you ask, confused. No girl has ever objected to you ordering for her or getting things for her.

"You really are used to females falling and tripping over themselves to make sure you know how much they adore you, aren't you?" she grins.

"I...just…" you try to start.

"No, no need," she laughs. "You really thought I was angry, didn't you?"

"You're not?" you ask, the breath you've been holding flushing out of your body.

"No, I'm not," she grins. "I just thought I would point out your presumptions to you."

"Oh," you reply.

"Yeah, oh," she giggles. "I don't know if it's a flaw, but it did occur to me that you're just so used to girls falling all over themselves over your twinkly brown eyes and artfully mussed blonde hair, not to mention access to your endless trust fund, that they all just defer to you and thus you assume all females are like that."

"So my eyes twinkle, huh?" you grab onto her compliment, trying to turn the tables on her.

"Yes, they do," she returns tightly, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Saved by the bell," you chuckle. "Our order is ready."

"Oh, good, I'm starving," she says, jumping up. "I hope you ordered something I'm going to like."

You think about what she said as you walk over to the counter and pick up the bags of food you've ordered, picking the conversation back up as you fall in step beside her. "You're right, you know."

"What do you mean?" she questions. "You got a ton of food."

"Well, I figured I shouldn't be overly presumptuous, since you're not a huge vegetable fan, so I ordered a bunch of different stuff," you reply. "Hopefully in all of this will be something you'll like. But I'm talking about girls deferring to me. You're right. I'm used to that. Aside from a couple of girls I'm actually friends with who treat me like I'm no one special, it seems like most of the girls I meet are just looking to use me for an expensive meal and, if things go for a few dates, maybe a nice parting gift."

"What exactly do you get out of this?" she questions, then picks up her purse and swings it out to gesture around you. "Where do you want to head? I like to watch the seals - it's not too depressing. Conceptually zoos are nice, but putting beautiful animals in cages has always stuck me as wrong."

"Seals are fine," you agree, following her to the map. "What do you think I get out of it?"

"I think I'm afraid to ask or assume," she replies, pointing to guide you toward the seal display.

"I'm a young man in my early twenties; I'm not going to lie and try to tell you I don't like sex," you admit. "Here, start going through these and see if you see something in there you might like."

"So it's a form of prostitution?" she pointedly asks. "What are each of these?"

"I wouldn't call it that," you defend. "There's cumin rice, spinach dal - that's lentils, a vegetable and pineapple curry, some okra fry, which I really like, creamy spinach, a couple of eggplant dishes - eggplant in yogurt gravy and eggplant and potato curry, some curried mushrooms with peas, a mixed vegetable stew, a couple of kinds of dumplings - steamed spinach and deep fried mixed vegetable, and I think some potato and corn cakes. I think that's everything I ordered - well, a rice dish for desert - but that's about it."

"Good grief," she giggles. "You really tried to cover all the bases, didn't you?

"I figured if I got enough, you would have to find something appealing in there," you laugh. "Can you hand me a fork?" you ask, trying to decide if you really want to discuss this with her. Your time together has thus far been idyllically otherworldly, but you know if you're planning on continuing your friendship back at school, she's going to learn what you're really like.

"Oh, the pineapple curry is really good, try it," she says, holding out a forkful for you to taste.

"That is really good," you say, after you swallow. "You're probably going to think I'm an arrogant jackass, but yes, I get sex out of the arrangements, if you can call them that, with the girls I date. I don't do relationships; I've never been in one. I have a few girls who I'm actually friends with that I would never touch sexually. But those numbers are very few, like three. The rest of them are a rotating sea of girls that ask nothing of me emotionally, and I ask nothing of them either. It's dinner and a fuck, that's about it. I don't want any more from them, and for the most part they want nothing more from me. A few have gotten it into their heads that more was possible, but I've generally been able to shed them pretty quickly."

"Wow," she says after a moment of silence. "That's just…that's kinda sad. Some of my relationship history is kinda painful, even with only two boyfriends, but at least I know I meant something to both of them. I don't know if I'm cut out for that kind of lifestyle."

"I wasn't asking you to be," you reply tightly, because you're not. You can't imagine treating Rory in the dismissive manner you treat most females, assuming the worst from the beginning so you can easily shed them when the time comes with no guilt or recriminations.

"So, if you're not interested in me for dinner and a fuck," she starts, the curse word sounding foreign coming out of her mouth. "Then what is it we're doing here?"

It takes you a minute, because you know you're lying to an extent, but to tell her the truth, to admit it to anything but the dark recesses of your mind, just isn't happening. Because the reality is, as much as you protest and say you don't want more, she's made you think about the possibility of wanting more from a girl - in a girl - more in the last couple of days than you ever have in your entire life. But you know it's a desire that you're not ready to take a chance on. Leaping off literal cliffs you can handle, diving off emotional ones, even if she might be the most perfect girl for you that you've ever met, would take more courage than you have. Emotionally, you're still a coward.

So instead of saying what you might really want to say, you defer, "We're becoming friends."

"Oh," she says. You try to tell yourself you're imaging the little falling of her face, but it's gone so quickly, you're not sure. "Friends is good," she continues, smiling in a way that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "At least I won't have to worry about you wanting to get me out of my clothes," she finishes with a giggle.

"No," you agree, "you won't have to worry about that." And she won't, you nod to yourself. At least not in a literal sense, though that won't stop your mind from imagining what it might be like to kiss her soft lips, or caress her perfect, silky, pale skin; what it would be like to lose yourself in her body, just like you've so enjoyed losing yourself in conversation with her. 

You shake yourself, knowing you need to get your mind off what you'd like to do to her sexually. "I can't believe I haven't asked you what your thoughts on Yossarian are yet."

"Oh my goodness," she laughs, perking up, "I can't believe it either. It really is amazing. These dumplings are great, by the way, and the corn cakes."

"I told you if you gave all the food groups a chance you would find things you like," you reply cheekily, talking a forkful of okra and munching.

"It really is good," she smiles. "But back on topic, the absurdity of the rules that have rules that have more rules…it's just nuts."

"Well," you say, "I think one of the guiding principles is that to deal with insanity you have to be insane, or it's easier if you are."

"That makes sense," she nods.

"But, and maybe you're not far enough into it to really have gotten this out of it yet," you continue, "but the thing I always get out of the book is you have to find your own rules, and live by them, because rules imposed on you by others are by their very nature, stifling and insane.

"Heller uses the military and war as a template for this, but ultimately it's a work about personal freedom, or at least that's what it says to me. Because you can substitute the military for anything, anyone that expects you to live by their rules, be it society, bureaucracy that tries to tell you how to live, your family, whatever."

"So you should live life on your own terms, by your own rules," she replies.

"Ideally," you nod. "But how many of us really get to do that?" you ask with an ironic smile, your father's face instantly coming to mind. 

"Not many," she returns, shaking her head. 

"But I should be asking you your impressions, I've read it a zillion times and here I am hogging the conversation," you admonish yourself.

"No," she shakes her head. "Please, I love hearing your opinions. It's so obvious you have passion for the subject, and it will make me read it with a different eye. I'm so stuffed," she says, laying down her fork in one of the containers between you.

"It was good, huh?" you ask.

"Very good," she nods vigorously. "Thanks for suggesting it. Ooh, look at the seals!" she laughs, pointing over at the clapping seal sitting on a ledge waiting for the keeper to throw it a fish.

"Trained wild animals; how sad and ironic is that," you say with a shake of your head.

"Quite bad," she agrees, helping you close all the containers and put them back in the bags. 

"I hate the idea of putting wild animals in cages, stifling their freedom," you continue, wondering if you're talking about the animals or yourself. 

"Born free," she replies.

"Yeah," you concur. "I think we have too much stuff to do the practical thing and take the Tube, I think a taxi is our best option," you say, walking out of the zoo, heading back into the main section of Regents Park.

"You're probably right," she nods. You flag down a passing taxi and give him the address where you met this morning as your destination, the ride passing mostly in silence. You wonder if you've run out of things to say, if perhaps you've shocked her with what you told her about yourself back at the zoo. You could have told her anything, but you didn't want to lie to her, make her think you're someone that just aren't. Rory Gilmore should stay away from you, at least romantically. She wasn't built for guys like you; that much has become obvious in the last few days. Nipping any ideas she might have about the two of you she might be forming in the bud seems the easiest and most logical route to take. Friends…friends you can do. Friends you can handle. Best to leave things as they are.

"I had a wonderful time today," she says with a broad smile. You hadn't realized it but the taxi has pulled up to the corner.

"I did, too," you smile back, completely genuine. It had been a wonderful day, even if your emotions were all over the place. And you know you shouldn't ask, you should let her go and not look back, at least not till you have more people around to act as a buffer, but while you have no plans to try to kiss her, or try anything, you still don't want to deny yourself her company, not on the last day you'll be able to see her for weeks. So you find yourself asking, before you can stop yourself, "Are you free tomorrow?"

"I am, actually. Grandma is up in Bath with friends for the weekend, so I'm free as a bird all day," she smiles.

"Great," you reply. "I have something in mind I think you'll love. And I'll throw in lunch and dinner as well, no reciprocation or favors expected at the end of the night."

"All right," she returns after a moment. "Same time as today? Right here?" she asks with a pumping of her bags to emphasize where you are both standing.

"Yes," you nod in agreement. "I'll see you tomorrow. Oh, let me give you the rice flower pudding. It's really good and I think we were both too stuffed to try it at the zoo," you suggest, digging through the bags of food, handing the container to her. 

You watch her walk away till she gets to the house where she's staying, making sure she gets inside with no incident. "Oh, and bring a light sweater," you call out, thinking of what you have planned. She waves and smiles as she pulls out her key, heading indoors, you turn to head back to your house, a spring in your step. You'll be seeing her again tomorrow.

---

_I don't know who I expected him to be, if I expected him to lie to me, or just not be quite as honest as he was, but I certainly didn't expect it to hurt quite as much as it did when he said we were becoming 'friends.' Not from someone I didn't even know this time last week. _

And yet, it felt like a little dagger was slipped into my chest. It felt like he was calling me a name, or something. I've never thought of the word 'friends' as being a dirty word, or a negative, till today.

Though, it's not like I really want to be added to his rather obvious stable of reciprocal fuck buddies. I don't want that. And yet, I don't want to just be his friend either. There's more here, I feel it, I know he does too. I know we've connected in a special way this week, I know_ that. And yet, he wants me to be his friend. It feels so hollow, so empty, so wrong._

It's not like I expected him to introduce me to his friends as his girlfriend. He hasn't even kissed me. But I thought we had all the time in the world. I thought we would be seeing where this thing led when we got back to school. But he doesn't seem to want that. He doesn't seem to want to take a chance on changing his well-ordered life. 

Or maybe I've been reading all his signals wrong all week. Maybe I'm just a diversion to him while he's stuck in London waiting for his sister. Maybe he's not at all attracted to me. Maybe this is nothing more than good conversation and a passing amusement. 

I don't even know why this is bugging me so much; I didn't know him a week ago. It shouldn't bug me at all. Yet, it does. It's all I've been able to think about since he said the word back at the zoo. It took all my strength just to hold it together and continue our conversation as if nothing had happened, as if the thing that is rapidly becoming what I want most, to explore where this could go with Logan, wasn't just ripped away from me. Even the possibility is gone too. He left no room for negotiation.

I came upstairs and looked out at our bench and tree and felt like I wanted to cry. Somehow with that one word he spoiled everything that happened there this week. And I don't want that. I want my perfect week back; I want the possibility of maybe back.

Perhaps we never should have left the garden after all.

TBC 


	7. Day 11

**AN**: This is going to be in several parts, please bear with me.   
1) First and foremost I, as always, must thank my friend & beta, **fulfilled**. I can't tell you how amazing and wonderful she is. I'm ever so grateful for her having contacted me. More than I can ever say.  
2) I want to apologize for the delay. Life & work got in the way and I just had no time for more than a month to work on this, then it ended up being such a large task, it took some time to get what I wanted on the page.  
3) I want to take a moment to explain the title. It started out as a temporary title, as is suggested, but after watching Notting Hill again I realized that Richard Curtis's production company is called Working Title Productions, thus the title stayed. Maybe not the most creative title I've ever come up with, but I thought providential.   
4) This was written for the **roryficathon06** for **cuppa joe**, my prompt will be reposted at the end, so you can see if I did or didn't meet the request. I hope **cuppa joe** has enjoyed this, I've enjoyed writing it.   
5) This didn't quite end up being what I had originally envisioned, but I'm very happy with it, I have to say. I'm not sure if it ends up being what readers expected, but this is first and foremost a character study of the Logan Huntzberger we first meet, and his struggle to not only admit, but also to act, on his feelings for Rory. To not service both sides of that equation would not accomplish what I wanted to do. But that's my reasoning, anything else, was gravy.   
6) Thank you to Babette for the language help & translation.  
7) Thank you so much for reading, and even more those that have left comments and reviews. I will get to answering them posthaste.

* * *

**Day 11**

She's waiting for you at the corner again this morning, wearing figure-hugging jeans again, this time with a pink and white floral print shirt topped with a bright blue band collar, holding the brown cardigan she'd found yesterday in her hand. She wears clothes in such an unassuming way, as if she doesn't know how beautiful or alluring she is.

"I bring you coffee and croissants as a peace offering," you call out with a smile as you approach her.

"Peace offering?" she asks, her head falling to the side to the side inquisitively, automatically extending her hand for the coffee that is the elixir of her being.

"I think you perhaps took my saying that we're becoming friends the wrong way yesterday," you begin.

"Really?" she asks after a moment and a long drink from the massive cup of coffee you'd given her. "I thought it was perfectly clear."

"Well, I don't," you reply with a shake of your head, even though she's right - it's clear to you. You'd like her to be more, but you're too scared that it will blow up in your face to try. "I don't want you to get the impression that all that's happened here is me trying to get into your pants. I've greatly enjoyed all of our conversations this last week and I'd like that to continue once we get back to Yale. I want you to feel like you can call me up to chat or go to dinner or for drinks at the pub together or with a group of friends."

"You just want to be clear that it's not an elaborate attempt to get me naked?" she returns.

"Yes," you nod with a smile.

"I think it was clear yesterday," she mutters.

"I wasn't sure," you say back, trying to see her face, but her hair has fallen forward, covering it.

"No, it was clear," she replies, pulling off a piece of the croissant, and popping it in her mouth. "This is really good."

"They looked really good - that's why I got them for you," you return.

"Do you want some?" she offers, holding out a piece she's torn off.

"Mmm, that is good," you mumble around the piece she shoves in your mouth. "I just wanted to make sure…"

"_Logan_," she cuts in. "Can we please drop this? This is our last day together, I head home tomorrow. I would like for it to be as pleasant as is possible. I understand - I don't really get it - but I understand. We're friends. No more. It's all right; I'm not going to break because the mighty Logan Huntzberger isn't hoping to make me his next conquest. Really. I'm fine."

"I just…" you begin again.

"_Logan_!" she cuts you off. You fall into a silence, not companionable like it has been between the two of you so far, but a bit uncomfortable. There's still a part of you that wants to tell her that you really want to let her cut in the line Steph swears exists to get to you. That you'd like her to be first. That she isn't going to get thrown out of the park for line jumping. But that requires admitting there's more here than you're willing to admit out loud, more power than you're willing to give to her.

"We're taking the Tube today; I think it'll be faster." You finally cut through the uneasy silence that has settled around you, your hand settling familiarly at the base of her spine, steering her into the Bayswater station. 

"Oh, where are we going?" she asks, seeming eager to leave your awkward conversation in the past and get started on your last day together.

"Bayswater to Notting Hill Gate, where we pick up the Central Line, to Bond Street, where we'll get on the Jubilee Line and go to Southwark," you tell her, walking up to the ticket line to purchase passes.

"What's at Southwark?" she asks, a twinkle in her eye as she tries to pry your plans for the day out of you.

"You'll find out once we get there. I think you'll enjoy yourself," you smile back, handing her ticket to her, turning to the turnstiles so you can head for the escalators to the platforms below. 

"You know, these were used as bomb shelters during the Blitz," she relays as you pass the massive iron doors to the platform.

"I knew that," you say back, smiling, hoping to coax her out of the melancholy that has descended upon the two of you since your awkward conversation the day before. "The air raid sirens would go off and everyone would head toward the underground bunkers to wait out the night, or part of the night."

"It seems like such a fretful way to live," she observes as you get to the platform.

"Yeah, it does," you agree. "But I guess you do what you have to."

"To survive," she nods quietly. "Oh, I think our train is here," she says eagerly, craning her neck and bouncing on her toes to see better as you hear a train coming down the tracks.

"I think you're right." You smile at her enthusiasm.

"So you're not going to tell me where we're going?" she asks as you settle into your seats.

"Patience is a virtue," you chuckle. "Besides, you seem like a person who likes a good surprise."

"I do like surprises," she laughs, "but that doesn't mean I'm not going to try to pry it out of you anyway! Come on, tell me _something_," she whines.

"Southwark is on the southern side of the Thames," you say after a moment, thinking about what you can tell her without giving much away.

"I had kinda figured that out already," she pouts, her bottom lip jutting out a bit, slapping your knee playfully.

"Hey, physical violence is not acceptable," you tease.

"If I actually thought I'd left a mark, I might be concerned," she shoots back. 

"Okay, so south side of the Thames, that could be many things, but it does also limit it somewhat. There's the New Globe - oh, are we going to the summer Shakespeare Festival? I read that they're showing _Twelfth Night_ and _Henry V_ right now. Ohhhh, I love Viola and Duke Orsino. Cross-dressing, mistaken identity, crazy plot twists. Oh, I would love that!" she claps.

"This is our stop," you say as the train pulls into Notting Hill Station, butting into her ode to Shakespearean comedy of errors.

"Is it the Shakespeare festival? Please, you have to tell me," she begs, pulling on your jacket. 

"_Rory_," you chuckle, "I'm not telling you, so stop begging. Now, come on, hurry!" you exclaim, grabbing her hand and pulling her with you down the stairs to the platform you're heading toward. "Our train's pulling into the station," you yell over your shoulder at the rush of wind coming through the tunnels. 

"Oh my gosh! I'm totally winded!" she exclaims, her chest heaving up and down as she tries to catch her breath. The flush in her cheeks completely appealing, making her more beautiful than ever. The 'O' her mouth forms as she rapidly breathes in-and-out makes you want to capture her lips to give her a better reason to be out of breath.

"Maybe I'll force you to start coming with me on my morning run when we get back to school," you suggest instead. "You're woefully out of shape."

"Gilmores do not exercise," she grumps after a moment, her chest still heaving.

"Well, that's good to know," you laugh, wondering for the zillionth time since you've met exactly how her metabolism works. It's a modern miracle and should be studied by scientists. "Now, come on, we're to the Bond Street station now," you say, jumping up.

"We're not running," she whines, getting up to follow you off the train. "If we miss the train there will always be another in a few minutes."

"That doesn't sound like someone very eager to get where we're going," you tweak her, bumping into her side for emphasis.

"I might be more eager if I actually knew where we're going and what we're doing," she pouts prettily. 

"You'll know as soon as we get there; plus, this is our last Tube exchange. It will be a while to get to Southwark from here," you reply.

"That's good, I could use a rest," she smiles, her shoulder brushing against your arm as you stand next to one another on the platform. Just that small touch sends little shockwaves through your system. Once again – just how many times have you thought this since you met her? Too many to count – you want to throw caution to the wind and find out what kissing her soft lips would be like. You know it will be wonderful – there's no way it could be anything else. 

"Hey, come on, train's here," she says, knocking your arm with her shoulder and pulling you out of your thoughts. 

"Oh, I didn't even notice," you chuckle, putting a hand to the small of her back, guiding her onto the train. "Let's find a seat."

"I will say, I'll be forever grateful if we're heading to the Shakespeare Festival. Even more than _Twelfth Night,_ I love _Henry V_. Prince Hal becomes a man, "Once more into the breach, dear friends…" before the siege of Harfleur. Or before the Battle of Agincourt, the St. Crispin's Day speech," Rory began, "We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;  
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me  
Shall be my brother, be he ne'er so vile,  
This day shall gentle his condition:  
And gentlemen in England now a-bed  
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,  
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks  
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day." you end together, turning to smile at one another. 

"You like Prince Hal as well?" she asks eagerly.

"There've been times in my life I have felt a very close affinity to Hal, I even have my own Falstaff in Finn - I only hope that one day I'll grow up to be as great of a man as he did," you reply wistfully, thinking of your father and all his expectations of who and what he wants you to become, and your own rebellion against his plans for your life. "But, no, we're not going to the New Globe, though if I have to sit through a play, _Henry V_ would be near the top of my list of ones to sit through."

"You don't like the theatre?" she questions sharply.

"Not really," you admit a bit sheepishly. "I prefer the Kenneth Brannagh version of _Henry V_ - I can pause it, pop popcorn, get a sandwich, take a bathroom break, get a drink, or take a nap and pick it back up right where I left off when I'm ready," you laugh.

"You really are a most curious creature, Huntzberger," she laughs back. "You can afford to go to any play, opera, ballet, or musical you want, and yet you choose not to. My mom and I can't really afford to go very often, but she always made an effort to take me when she could. I love the theatre."

"What's the last thing you saw? Or what was your favorite?" you ask, anxious for any insights into who Rory Gilmore really is.

"Well, the first musical I remember my mom taking me to see in New York was _Contact_. The dancing was amazing. I don't think she could really afford to take me to the city to see things like that before then."

She's brought up her mother's lack of money a couple of times, but it seems strange to you that she's close enough to Emily to speak of her fondly and travel with her through Europe. Why Emily would neglect that part of Rory's education, you don't understand, especially since you're quite sure that Emily and Richard have always been great supporters of the arts. 

"You hadn't been to see live theatre until then?" you ask, wanting to clarify.

"No, she'd taken me to some things in Hartford, and a bit of summer stock, but that's the first time we went to New York to see anything - a big musical, at least. She got tickets from a client to see Tom Stoppard's _The Invention of Love_ about a year before that and took me. She didn't really like it, but I absolutely loved it."

"I love _Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead_," you reply, trying to not sound like quite the theatre hater you really are. "It's too funny - even I can't help but stay engaged. And I actually rather liked _After Magritte_, which my mother dragged me to a few years ago. It was so odd I think it kept me interested. If you get a chance you should see it."

"Isn't it supposed to be surrealist theatre?" she questions.

"Supposedly," you nod. "I guess to feel like you've stepped into the apple from one of Magritte's paintings."

"I'll have to keep my eye out for a production of it," she smiles. "We also went to see _Copehagen_ by Michael Frayn a few years ago and _Proof_, which I read is being turned into a movie with Gwyneth Paltrow and Anthony Hopkins. I loved both of them, but Mom was more into stuff like _Hairspray_, and she can't wait for _Spamalot_ to open. Me, I thought it was fascinating that anyone would write an entire play about the development of quantum theory..." she enthuses.

"Much as Bohr's concepts of photons, wave and particle fascinate me, we're here," you say, scooting her off your seat, following her to the metal tubes that house the escalators to the surface. You really do hate to stop her, her zest almost making you wish you actually like the theatre - it might be fun to take her someday. Unfortunately, for you, it is one of those formative experiences that was wrapped up in obligation and doing the right thing - your mother in particular had expected you to know about the theatre and be a cultured individual. She's been dragging you to productions from the time you were six or seven years old, certainly before you could have been expected to sit still for a three-or-hour production, and from there developed your loathing for live theatre, although you've always enjoyed reading many a fine play. Perhaps what you need are fresh eyes, someone to give you a new perspective. You never knew if things might be…

"Oh my God, Logan, have you seen this station? It's amazing!" Rory's enthusiastic pulling on your arm alerts you to the fact that you've entered the light infused cathedral-like concourse. "Look at the ceiling - it's glass! It's amazing."

"You've never been to any of the Jubilee Line stations?" you enquire.

"No, I haven't. I've only been to London once before, with Mom last summer, and we didn't go into any of these stations," she replies, her face upturned, twirling, looking at the shifting light as it bounces off the blue glass of the station roof, high above her head. "This is amazing." 

"This is actually the least elaborate of the Jubilee Line stations," you explain. "Well, the new ones that were opened for the queen's Golden Jubilee in 2003. They're beautiful - I wish we had more time; we could go see more of them. Alas, we don't."

"So you must have something pretty great planned for today," she pokes your side.

"I think so," you reply evasively.

"Ugh, you could just tell me, you know," she grouses. 

"And what would be the fun of that?" you ask, pivoting to head out the entry to the station. 

"Logan, where are you going?" she calls after you, running to catch up. 

"I'm heading out to the street to get a taxi and start our activity for the day," you return with smirk.

"Why can't you just act like a normal person?" she gripes.

"Normal is highly overrated," you laugh back, ushering her into the backseat of the taxi, then leaning toward the window to tell the driver where to head.

"That's not fair, she accuses. "You deliberately kept me in the dark as to our destination."

"As I told you earlier, patience is a virtue," you laugh.

"Also highly overrated," she throws back at you.

"Touché," you reply though your laughter. "It won't be long; it's not that far, just a mile or two."

"We could have walked," she giggles.

"True, but after the virtual heart attack you had when I pulled you through the Notting Hill station, and the gasping 'Gilmores don't exercise,' I figured it was safer to just let someone else do the work!" you rib.

"You really do enjoy getting a laugh at my expense, don't you," she huffs, folding her arms over her chest and turning toward the opposite window.

"You're going to miss where we're heading," you entice her to turn back around. "But, yes, it's fun to get a rise out of you."

"You're not in a very nice mood today," she shoots off, turning to look out your window, very pointedly past your person.

"Just feeling a little feisty," you laugh.

"Oh my God, are we going to the Tate?" she asks when the smoke stack comes into view, her voice trilling upward. 

"So I take it you approve?" you ask, nodding to confirm her question, happy she seems pleased with your plans.

"I wanted to go last year, but we didn't have time, too much to do," she rushes excitedly, bouncing on the seat. "Mom wanted to go down to Kings Road and see the punk rockers. I keep bugging Grandma, but she only wants to go to the National Gallery, or the Victoria and Albert - all fine, but I really wanted to come here. I'm so excited. They're supposed to have some of Henry Moore's finest works, and David Hockney, Rothko, Hopper, they're all supposed to be here," she rushes out in one breath, hopping out of the back of the taxi to rush around to your side. "Come on, Logan," she pulls on your hand to drag you toward the entrance. You have to stand your ground long enough to pay the driver, then you let her drag you up the esplanade toward the entrance.

"I believe that all of what you say is true," you marvel at her infectious zeal - it's been so long since you've been anything but jaded and cynical, but this time with Rory Gilmore has given you a somewhat fresh perspective on life, new eyes to see the world through. Hopefully it might last. "However, we're here today to see the Chagall exhibit. I've already reserved tickets for us; this is supposed to be one of the best and most comprehensive showings of his work that's ever been put together in one place. Certainly the best since he died. I read that MoMA is trying to get it as well, so if we don't see everything there is to see today, maybe we can go back in a few months."

"That would be nice, since I don't think seeing a Chagall once will be enough," she muses. "I love that line from _Notting Hill_: 'It feels like how being in love should be, floating through a dark blue sky.' It's poetic, I think."

"That a flying or floating goat is the ultimate expression of love?" you chuckle, holding open the door to the museum for her. 

"Yes, somehow it's a lovely and poetic thought. I think it's wonderful," she smiles. 

"_Seriously_, a floating goat?" you scoff. "One of the symbols of female oppression, as in how many goats are you worth? _That's_ the ultimate expression of romantic love?"

"When you put it like that," she replies sheepishly, "you make it seem a little silly, and with the female oppression already. But really I meant it that love should feel whimsical and comforting, like the blanket of a dark blue sky…" she trails off.

"That I think I can accept," you chuckle, loving to get under her skin and have her react.

"You do give me something to think about, re the goat thing. Women shouldn't be treated as chattel; we're people, not possessions," she replies, looking upward. "Oh, wow, this building is amazing. I read that it's a converted power station that went offline years ago," she says rapidly, changing the subject, practically skipping in her eagerness.

"Yeah, I think I read that somewhere," you deadpan.

"You're teasing me," she accuses.

"Maybe just a little," you smirk. "Come on, I'm sure there's some sort of a guidebook that will tell you all about he history of the power plant. And we have to get our tickets; otherwise we can't go to the exhibit."

She stands near you while you wait in line to pick up the tickets you've reserved, mouth agape, staring up at the expansive hall that makes up the main concourse of the museum. "Here you go," you say, handing her a pamphlet about the museum building that you got from the ticket seller.

"Oh, thanks," she replies, opening up the leaflet. "It says the Bankside Power Station was commissioned in 1947 after a power shortage, the architect was Sir Giles Gilbert Scott. It started generating power in 1952 but wasn't completed till 1963. It closed in 1981. It's two hundred eighteen yards long and the central chimney is one hundred eight yards high. It has an oil fired generator, which rising fuel prices at the beginning of the eighties made uneconomical to continue using," she enthuses. 

"Come on, I think it will be easier to walk up the concourses, rather than try to get on an elevator," you say, putting an arm to her back to guide her through the heavy traffic on the sweeping walkways. "The exhibit is on the fourth floor - do you think you can make it?" you tease.

"Oh, you're such the comedian," she mutters.

"I'm not the one that brought up the fact that, and I quote, 'Gilmores don't exercise,'" you laugh.

"I'm never going to live that down, am I?" she grumbles.

"Probably not," you chortle, grabbing her elbow. "Now come on, let's head up to the fourth floor."

"Marc Chagall was born Moshie Segal in eighteen eighty-seven in Vitebsk, Belarus, the first of nine children," she pointedly changes the subject, opening up the exhibit book. "He began to study painting in 1906 under a local artist - it says famed here, but I'm going to assume that means famous in the area, since I've never heard of him or her. Yehuda Pen – do you recognize the name?"

"Never heard it," you reply, guiding her around the turn to the second floor. 

"He moves to St. Petersburg shortly thereafter, in 1907," she continues, barely looking up. "He studied under Nikolai Roerich there, getting exposed to a wider variety of styles and schools of thought. Then from 1908 to 1910, he studied under Leon Bakst at Zvyagintseva School." 

"I don't think I've ever heard of the first guy, but the second I'm pretty sure my family owns something by," you say, not telling her that a couple of the paintings in the exhibit are actually on loan from your family. "You know, you couldn't live in St. Petersburg without a permit at that time if you were Jewish."

"Okay, I totally didn't know that." She looks at you strangely, a befuddled look on her face. "Where did you learn that? Russian history class?" she asks.

"Yeah, I'm kinda fascinated by both the Russian and Chinese transition to communism," you reply.

"Interesting, so you want to make sure no one ever wants to take away your ability to eat cake?" she laughs, needling you with a grin, quickly burying her face back in the brochure. Her laugh is lovely. "It says here that he traveled back and forth to his home village regularly, and met his future wife there, Bella Rosenfeld. He moved to Paris around 1910 and settled in the Montparnasse district and became friends with Guillaume Apollnaire, not sure if I'm pronouncing that correctly, Robert Delaunay, and Fernand Léger. Oh, I know who Léger is; he's a cubist painter. Come to think of it, that painting of Chagall's I see quite often of a cow and a green-faced man kinda reminds me of Léger," she laughs. "Anyway, he went back to Russia to marry Bella in 1914, and in 1916, while still in Russia since World War I had erupted, they had a daughter, Ida.

"He became an active participant in the Russian Revolution in 1917, and become the Commissar of Art in the Soviet Ministry of Culture for his native region and he founded an art school there," she briskly read off. "He didn't fare well under the Soviets…"

"Jews generally didn't," you interject, steering her around some other museum goers directly in her path. Most supported the Revolution thinking things would be better than under the Tsars, but they really just used the Russian Jewry as an arm of the Revolution and then turned on them once Lenin gained power. We're here," you state, trying to get her to look up. 

"Oh, that's him," she says, looking at a painting called, _Self-Portrait with Brushes_. "It's dated 1909, which is not long after he began painting. He had a lot of natural talent that got nurtured very quickly." 

"The hat rather reminds me of Rembrandt," you reply.

"The entire painting rather reminds me of Rembrandt," she smiles back toward you. "I'm a little cold."

"That's what I told you to bring a cardigan for," you say, pointing to the sweater she has tied around her waist.

"I forgot all about it," she laughs. "Here, hold these, pretty please," she hands you her pamphlets and the exhibit book you've given her. "Much better," she smiles, taking back her things. 

"This one reminds me of a cross between Gauguin and Toulouse-Lautrec," you observe, turning to the next painting, titled_The Model_, waiting for the mother and daughter looking at it to move on. 

"I don't think I ever would have thought of that, but you're right. It totally does," she agrees; looking at the raw subject matter, bold colors and rather free-formed style. "So you're also an art buff?"

"No," you shake your head with a wry chuckle. "Being a patron of the arts doesn't just mean theatre; it means art museums as well. I've been to many openings and private showings at MoMA, the Guggenheim, The Met, the Frick, the Whitney, and who knows where else. That's not to mention having already taken my one semester of humanities that is required for all Elis that plan on graduating. Don't tell anyone, but I don't actually sleep through all my classes," you smirk.

"I never would have thought that about you," she laughs, reminding you she doesn't really know the Logan that everyone at Yale knows - she's met a side of you that few people except your sister even know exists. "I'm sure that Grandma would have loved to have taken me to a lot of those museums when I was little, but I didn't really grow up around them ," she smiles. That's one thing you keep meaning to ask her about - why there seems to have been almost no contact, especially since they seem to be rather close now. You figure it's something you'll learn in time; for now, there are other things about Rory Gilmore you want to know more. 

"If he weren't Jewish I would think this was supposed to be a Virgin Mary, instead of a bride," she laughs, moving on to the next painting, _Bride with Fan_. 

"Maybe he still wanted to give off that impression," you comment with a nod.

"Perhaps. This is only a few years after he began painting, 1911, and you can already really see his distinct style emerging," she observes. 

"I agree," you nod. "I'm not sure if this makes any sense, but while the colors aren't really what I would call classic Chagall, the shape of her face, the way the woman, or bride, is painted and represented is very familiar."

"No, I totally get what you're saying," she agrees. "And then you get ones like these," she grins back at you, turning to the next two paintings, waiting for a woman with maroon hair to move along. "It's like he's trying to imitate Léger's style - I didn't know he did cubism, at all."

"But the green faces, those are very familiar," you say. She's right;the next two paintings, _Half Past Three (The Poet)_ and _The Soldier Drinks_, are very reminiscent of Léger's work. "When did you say he first went to Paris?"

"Oh, hold on," she fumbles with the book she's been holding and occasionally reading out of. "1910, so a year before these paintings were done."

"I guess that makes sense, then," you respond. "Oh, sorry," you exclaim, when someone bumps into you from behind.

"Sorry, verontschuldig mij," the man rushes out, steadying himself.

"Geen probleem, niets aan de hand," you reply. 

"You know German?" she questions.

"No – well, I do, but that was Dutch," you answer.

"I never would have guessed; that's so cool," she grins. "Oh, look at this one, it has the Russian folk dancers in the foreground," she points, drawing your attention back to the exhibit. "That's another familiar theme beginning to emerge."

"True, I always think of the folk dancers or floating people when I think of Chagall, but till now we haven't seen any, have we?" you reply.

"I don't think so," she confirms, looking back over the paintings you've already seen. "I think this is the first one. So Russian folk dancers first appear in 1911 or 1912…good to know," she grins as if she just discovered the double helix.

"1911," you nod with a chuckle. The two of you walk and chat about the various paintings in front of you for the next couple of hours. If there is one thing you've really come to appreciate about her quickly it's her ability to make you see things with new eyes. It's not that you ever hated going to art museums, but like so many other things, your love of books and language, for instance, it's a sharply double-edged sword. On the one hand, you love to write, craft a narrative and the like, but on the other, that love comes with so much baggage that it's difficult to separate the two. Something you've learned this week is that seeing them through the big blue eyes of Rory Gilmore makes it all new again. It is a perspective you like, and you hope it won't go away.

"…Logan!" she exclaims, tugging on your jacket. You get the feeling she's been trying to get your attention for a bit.

"Yes, ma'am," you reply snapping to attention.

"Look, isn't that just beautiful?" she asks, her voice soft with awe, holding onto your arm, resting her head against your shoulder. It feels natural and eerily right, making you a bit uncomfortable. You look up at what she's trying to focus your attention on to see a couple, her head resting on his shoulder, her hand placed softly on his chest, his head resting on hers, both their eyes closed. It is a lovely scene; you have to agree with her, the bouquet of flowers above their heads adding to the tranquility and bliss of the painting.

"It is beautiful," you agree softly.

"That's what I think love should feel like," she says quietly. "Like you belong, a place of rest, safety and happiness, not pain."

You try to see her face, but your shoulder obscures it. The catch in her voice makes you think maybe she's not just speaking in euphemism but from experience - except how much experience can a person have in the world of love and loss at the tender age of nineteen? Not much, you would imagine. She's alluded to a boyfriend in the past tense, though, maybe that's what she's talking about.

"Can we stay here for a minute?" she asks softly after a moment. 

"Yeah," you agree, smiling to yourself. "We can stay as long as you like."

"Not too much longer; I don't want to hog it," she sighs. "I just don't want to part with it quite yet.

The two of you eventually leave _Lovers with Flowers_, strolling arm-in-arm through the exhibit, commenting on floating lovers, laughing cows, dancing Russians, religious imagery, and the like. "I made us reservations at the restaurant upstairs," you say after a bit, checking your watch. 

"Oh, food - I could use that," she says excitedly. If you've learned anything, it's that she's never one to turn down a meal.

"Okay, let's go find a lift; it's supposed to be on level seven," you suggest, turning to find someone to ask. You make your way to the top level, giving your name to confirm the reservation you'd made. 

"Oh, look! The Millennium Bridge and St. Paul's," she enthuses walking up to your table by the wall of windows over looking the Thames. "I was so excited when we got here I didn't even notice them."

"I did wonder, since they seem like the type of thing you would get excited about," you laugh, following her gaze to the suspension footbridge and cathedral dome beyond. 

"I'm going to ignore the fact that you're making fun of me, and beg you to consider crossing the bridge after we're done here. Pretty please?" she singsongs.

"I'm not sure…"

"Please," she whines, "pretty please," she continues, batting her eyelashes beguilingly.

"I was planning on doing that after we finish here," you smirk after a moment of letting her twist. "I made earlyish dinner reservations for seven-thirty at a restaurant on the north side of the river. I thought we could walk across the bridge, then maybe spend a few hours at Covent Garden looking around - it's not too far away - then head back to eat dinner."

"Oh, that sounds perfect," she claps. Her childlike enthusiasm is at least half of her appeal, you have to admit - you're so used to girls being just as worldly and cynical as you are. She isn't just a breath of fresh air, but a whirlwind or hurricane. "Thank you so much, Logan. I love the murals on the walls as well; they're so bright, vibrant and fanciful. My mother would love them. I'll have to look and see if I can get a print or something before we leave," she grins, picking up her menu to study.

"The menu says they're by a Brazilian artist, named, Beatriz Milhazes," you tell her, seeing a notation at the bottom of your menu. 

"Well, I love them, they make me want to go dance a samba," she gushes. "Not that I can dance a samba, but you get the picture. They make me wish I could!"

Her ebullience makes you chuckle - she's such a dichotomy. Full of childlike enthusiasm and joy on the one hand, but on the other there's this persistent veil of sadness that creeps up around her, a wistfulness, like when she spoke about the couple in the painting. You know she yearns for something, just like you do, but the way she spoke makes you wonder, not for the first time, if she's experienced the pitfalls of love while craving the sense of home and belonging writers claim it brings.

"Okay, what do you want to order?" you ask after you've both perused the menu for a few minutes. 

"I think I want this Suffolk chicken breast with grilled veggies and salsa verde," she says after a moment, setting down her menu. "What about you?"

"I'm going with the char-grilled tuna with potatoes, olives and beans," you return. 

"There's a soft boiled egg with that as well," she laughs.

"Yeah, well, I'm probably not bothering with that, but the rest of it sounds good," you chuckle. "I'm going to get us a bread basket," you suggest, causing her to nod in agreement, "I was thinking either the Dorset crab with samphire, lemon and olive oil or the Monte Enebro goat's cheese and Tropea red onion tart, but they both sound really good. How about we get both?"

"Oh, those do sound good," she agrees as your waiter comes back to take your orders.

"Have you ever been in love?" you ask after he leaves. It's a question you've wanted to ask her - maybe it's the reason for the sadness you always sense in her, see in her eyes. Which, along with her innocence, remains the reason you still look, but barely touch. It is an off-putting combination. You might not have the guts to give whatever is growing between the two of you a try, but that doesn't mean you don't want to know her, know everything about her.

"Yes…I guess you can call it that," she says, fiddling with her fork and looking at her lap.

"I mean if I didn't love him, then how am I ever supposed to justify what I did?" she asks after a moment. You know you're not supposed to answer, since you have no idea what she's talking about. "If I didn't love him, then what excuse do I have?" she whimpers softly, a catch in her voice. "How am I supposed to live with myself?" she finishes in a whisper.

"Rory," you begin, reaching over to take her hand in yours. "I don't know what it is, but you can't have done anything that horrible."

"Oh really," she replies, determinedly wiping away the bit of moisture that has escaped her eyes. "I don't think you know me quite as well as you think you do."

"Maybe not," you agree softly. "But I know you wouldn't hurt anyone intentionally."

"Tell that to Lindsay," she breathes. The waiter sets down the bread basket you ordered, Rory reaches in to get a piece, but instead of eating it, starts ripping it into tiny pieces. "Do you want to know why I'm here? Why I've been shuttled off to Europe for the summer with my grandmother? It isn't because I was planning on doing a grand tour, seeing the sights in style, as every proper young lady should. I'm here because I did something that I can't take back, that I can't pretend didn't happen," she rambles, folding and unfolding her napkin, as if trying to bring order to the situation, her hands in constant nervous motion. "You see, my mother came home just after I had lost my virginity to my ex boyfriend."

"Okay, maybe a bit awkward, but not the end of the world – you are nineteen, and you've finished your freshman year in college," you reply.

"He's married," she breathes.

"Oh," is all you can say in return; she has left you speechless. You never expected this. Not from her, your beautiful, innocent Rory. But it also explains a great deal; why she seems so sad. She also carrying around a massive load of regret. 

"Why didn't you lose your virginity to someone at Yale? I know a ton of guys who would have been happy to accommodate you," you ask softly.

"Freshman year didn't go so well," she replies, trying to pull a small smile. "I tried to date a couple of guys, and they turned out to be disasters. I'm not the most social person in the world, and school was much more difficult than I thought it would be, so I ended up retreating into myself. I went home a lot. I think I thought home was safe, so Dean was safe as well, stupidly forgetting that he's now someone else's husband, not just my first boyfriend. And now I can't take it back. I'll have always lost my virginity to someone else's husband," she finishes, tears forming in the corners of her eyes, causing her to begin blinking rapidly, trying to hold them back.

Your waiter sets down your starters, prompting you to try to get Rory to eat. Perhaps it will distract her, given how much she loves to eat. "Try the crab," you suggest after taking a bite, "it's really good. And the tart looks wonderful."

"I'm not really hungry anymore," she mumbles.

"_Rory_," you prompt, reaching over to take her plate, spooning some of the crab onto it for her and serving a slice of the tart. "You need to eat."

"Fine," she grouses. "But only because you're making me," she agrees with a wan smile, picking up her fork, stabbing at a piece of the crab. "It is good," she admits after chewing and swallowing. 

"Try the tart, it's very good," you encourage.

"So…Dean, did you say his name was?" you ask, wanting to know what happened, why she seems so ripped apart inside.

"They got together after we broke up, senior year of high school," she begins. "By the end of the year they were engaged. They got married the following fall."

"Can I ask why he got married so young?" you enquire.

"I don't really know. He told me it was because he loved her and they didn't want to wait, but I don't really think that was it. Lots of people fall in and out of love when they're young, but it doesn't cause them to decide to get married," she rushes out, ending by popping a bite of the tart in her mouth. "This is really good," she smiles after she swallows.

"It really is," you nod.

"They had problems almost as soon as they got married," she continues, "and by the time we slept together he said he never really loved her, that he's always loved me. I really wanted to believe that. I think I needed to - I needed someone to love me and not leave me, someone I thought I could count on, rely on, depend on," she trails off with a frown. "Not someone who leaves with no explanation, then shows back up just to say he loves you, then leaves again. And then to top it off, shows up, tells you that you belong together, that he knows you better than anyone else, and now he's ready, so let's go. Maybe I wasn't ready anymore? Did he ever think of that? That maybe him leaving with no explanation hurt like hell, that even if he does love me or even if I ever loved him, how am I ever supposed to trust him? Does he really think that declaring he loves me and gets me, and now he's really ready is going to make all of it better? Make me suddenly able to trust him, to know that I can depend on him?" she rambles, taking small bites every so often. "I needed someone I could depend on, whose love I really believed in, who I knew would be there for me, not leave…" she trails off.

You have no idea what she's segued into talking about, or more precisely who. But you don't think she's still talking about Dean anymore. Or maybe she is, but it's jumbled up in stuff about someone else as well. But you can see and feel pain emanating from her; it's palpable. Whoever she's talking about hurt her deeply.

"Have you ever done it?" she asks after a moment, looking up, her huge blue eyes cloudy with pain.

"What?" you reply, confused. She'd covered a lot of territory.

"Slept with someone else's…well, wife?" she says, worrying her bottom lip. 

"No," you say after a moment. "But that might be because I don't know anyone that's married or really engaged as of yet, not my age or any of my sister's friends. Not yet, anyway. Give me time and unfortunately I probably will manage to do all of the above. I've slept with several people in serious relationships," you confess.

"You don't care?" she queries, her brow furrowed.

"I'm not the one that's pledged my fidelity to anyone, I'm a free agent," you begin.

"That's a very convenient way of looking at it," she returns, pulling on her lip. "You manage to absolve yourself of all moral obligations, putting the entire burden on the other person."

"Aren't they the one that's supposed to be committed to someone? I'm not," you reason. Maybe your morals are questionable, but you've never seen why you should have to bother honoring other people's commitments that they themselves have no desire to honor. Easy sex is easy sex, though you know that what she's going through is different. 

"Yeah, but…" she trails off as your waiter comes back to serve your main courses.

"Oh, my chicken is really good," she says, after taking a bite. 

"So's my tuna," you return. "You wanna try it?"

"Oh, yeah, that would be nice," she eagerly agrees, cutting off a piece of her chicken and a bit of the vegetables and a small amount of the salsa verde, putting them on her bread plate and handing them to you. You do the same with your dish, handing your bread plate over to her. 

"Yours is good," you say after trying her chicken.

"So's yours," she nods.

"But shouldn't you honor their vows and commitments as well?" she enquires, circling back around to what you were talking about before beginning your main courses.

"In theory, I suppose that would be best," you reply after a moment. "But I'm not the one that's pledged loyalty to anyone. I didn't make any vows or sign any legally binding documents tying me to that person, like Dean and…" you trail off trying to remember the name of the wife.

"Lindsay," she provides.

"Yes, like Dean and Lindsay," you nod. "Were you the one that pledged to forsake all others for her? Were you the one that vowed to love her till death you do part? Were you the one that said through sickness and health, good times and bad, etc., etc.?" You circle through the air with your fork.

"No," she shakes her head. "But that doesn't mean I shouldn't have respected the fact that Dean had said all those things to her," she replies.

"Maybe, but you can't respect that which someone else already doesn't," you return.

"That very conveniently absolves me of any culpability," she mumbles.

"Well, I try not to live my life collecting guilt for things," you say, sending both of you into silence for a few minutes as you mull over what's been said, each enjoying your lunches. "The person you couldn't trust anymore?" you begin again after a bit. "Who is he?"

She looks nervous all of the sudden, maybe not having really realized she vocalized some of what she'd been thinking about.

"His name is Jess; he was my second boyfriend," she says quietly. "We had everything in common, from a love of books to the same taste in music - he's incredibly intelligent. You might like him -I mean, he likes Hemingway," she giggles, which is nice to hear.

"Obviously a mortal sin," you grin back.

"_Obviously_," she laughs.

"So what happened?" you question.

"He was really emotionally screwed up, and even though I tried to make him see that I wanted to help, I don't think he knew how to open up emotionally to anyone. Eventually he dropped out of school when they were going to keep him back for missing too much and left," she finishes, eyes turning down.

"Maybe I'm missing something, but didn't you say he's smart?" you ask, noticing the discrepancy in what she's saying.

"He is," she nods. "He just didn't have any use for the structure of school, or he didn't think he did. Like I said, he's really emotionally screwed up, and I'm not even sure if he could make sense of the choices he made. But I was the only person that he really liked even, so I thought since we got each other, maybe he would change, or maybe he could be what I needed him to be."

"Did you love him?" you probe, though you don't see how she can't. Nothing short of love would cause the sort of pain you see in her eyes.

"Yeah, I did, and part of me still does. But I'll never trust him enough to take a chance on it again. I think that's what took me so long to take the chance to be with him to begin with - I knew how it was going to end before it ever began and was trying to keep myself from going through that," she confesses, tears coming into her eyes. "I was with Dean, the first time, for almost a year after I became interested in Jess. And I stayed with Dean, because he was safe; I knew he wouldn't hurt me. Maybe he didn't get me like Jess, but he wasn't going to hurt me like Jess did either. And I think I always knew that."

"So, Dean, did he know?" you inquire. It seemed like an odd situation.

"Yeah, he knew, I think he just thought - or hoped - it was a passing fancy, that I would get over it," she replies. "But I never did."

Dean sounded like a really insecure guy, to be able to put up with knowing she wanted to be with someone else even while she stayed with him. Maybe it was safety or fear, but you can't imagine wanting to be with someone that didn't want to fully be with you, too. It didn't seem worth it, even for someone as special as Rory. "You want to get dessert?" you ask, changing the subject.

"Oh, yes, there was some sort of blueberry and chocolate tart that sounded wonderful, and a chocolate truffle torte that I think it said came with white chocolate ice cream that sounded absolutely sinful, and also this Seville orange and butter pecan bread pudding that sounded scrumptious. Do you think we can get a menu and see what all they have?" she asks hopefully.

"I'm sure that can be arranged," you grin at her giddiness, signaling your waiter to come back and asking for dessert menus. "You can even get more than one if you like."

"I never turn down extra dessert," she grins back. 

"I never doubted that for a second," you laugh, glad to see a smile back on her face after the heavy and painful conversation you've had during lunch.

---

You wander through the rest of the Tate for a while before heading out the front of the power station; Rory's excitement over walking across the Millennium Bridge is palpable. 

"I remember when they first opened it they had to close it for structural problems because it shook," she tells you, dragging you behind her as she walks quickly across the esplanade. "Come on, keep up," she urges over her shoulder, almost skipping to get to the bridge.

"Isn't this cool?" she enthuses once you're to the center. "Isn't the view amazing? Look at St. Paul's and the power station itself…" You spend the next couple of hours watching the passing traffic and doing a bit of shopping in Covent Garden, mostly at bookstalls. Both of you finding many things you want, Rory complaining about the lack of space in her luggage, you volunteering to ship whatever she wants to purchase with your own, promising to deliver them to her dorm yourself once both of you are back at school.

You check your watch after a while, realizing that if you don't hurry you won't make the reservation you have at 7:30. "Come on," you prompt, carrying her books in your arms. "Let's get a taxi," you suggest. 

"Okay," she nods. "It's going to be harder to take the Tube back tonight."

"We'll just get another taxi," you reply, climbing in behind her. "River Café," you relay, sitting back, happily putting down your burden. She's gotten a lot of books, and you haven't done badly yourself.

---

"I feel a little underdressed," she says looking around at the fashionably dressed crowd. 

"Don't worry about it; they won't refuse to serve us," you say, knowing your money is never turned down, following the hostess out to the table you reserved on the balcony overlooking the Thames. 

"It really is beautiful here," she smiles after settling in her chair, "watching the boats go by as you eat."

"Not too many anymore, though," you observe, looking out at the almost empty river.

"No, they put a stop to much of it back in the Thatcher administration, I think," she replies. "It caused too much pollution."

"I think you're right," you nod.

"Ohhh, they have something here called a Chocolate Nemesis - I must try that!" she giggles, looking the menu up and down.

"Do you know what you want?" you ask after a minute. "I thought we could have the prosciutto with melon for our antipasti course. I would suggest some grilled vegetables, but somehow I think I'd be shot down," you chuckle.

"You already are learning my tastes," she grins over her menu. "Good boy. Actually I was going to ask how you wanted to order."

"What do you mean?" you question, not really knowing what she's talking about.

"There's antipasti, and pasta and…"

"Oh, just order what you want, I'm going to get a bit of pasta and a main course as well," you reply.

"Are you ready to place your order?" your waiter asks, coming back to the table.

"I think we'll take some bottled still water and a bottle of the Piemonte Rosabella with our first two courses, then a bottle of the Piemonte Barolo to go with our main courses, unless the lady orders something that doesn't go with that," you tell her. "Rory, what do you want?"

"I'll have the Tagliatelle con Funghi and the lamb," she says, handing her menu to the waiter, turning to look pointedly at you.

"I'll have the Taglierini con Gamberetti e Zucchini and the monk fish," you relay quickly, her look making you uneasy, "and we're going to have the Prosciutto de Parma e Charentais melon for our antipasti, and the wine selection will be fine."

"Why don't you do relationships?" she asks, after the waiter leaves. You hadn't expected anything like that when she had been giving you a curious look. But then you suppose it's only appropriate; you've asked about her relationship history.

"The way I look at it, liking someone isn't enough to commit to them. You yourself have to be ready for that commitment as well," you explain after thinking about what to say for a few moments. "It's not just about being sexually faithful. You have to be able to be ready to open yourself up, be there for that person, and be faithful emotionally as well as physically. Know that even though you're going to hurt her, it's inevitable, you're going to do your damndest not to. And until I'm ready for that, I'm not going to commit myself to anyone. When I do it's going to be because I'm ready for all of that, or I want to try to be all of that to that person. But not before." You don't tell her that getting to know her this past week has made you think about all of this more than you have in a very long time, maybe ever, or that she's the first girl you've met who makes you think that maybe you really are ready to at least try. But knowing how hurt she's been in the past has thrown up more caution signs in the road. You don't want to just be another guy to add to the pain in her beautiful blue eyes. If you can't be the guy that makes them smile then you don't want to chance it. 

"But how do you know if you've never tried?" she questions. "I mean you're twenty-one…"

"Twenty-two," you interject.

"Twenty-two," she corrects herself. "You're twenty-two and have never gotten into an actual relationship, right?" she waits for your nod of affirmation before continuing. "How do you know they're not for you? How did you know at sixteen that you didn't want a girlfriend - you wanted a temporary playmate and paramour?"

"I grew up watching my parents' loveless marriage, and the constant rotation of my best friend's stepmother-of-the-moment, and the horrible marriages of everyone else around me. I decided early on that wasn't for me. I didn't want to be like them," you say, staring straight into her eyes, hoping she understands all of what you're trying to say, what you're trying to tell her. "I don't want to be in a relationship that's just going to cause someone else - and me, for that matter - pain, just for the convention of being in a relationship. If I can't be someone she can count on, then I shouldn't be making commitments I can't or won't keep. If I can't have what my sister and Josh have found…" you trail off when the waiter comes back with your antipasti course and first bottle of wine. 

You both sample the wine and nod your approval, allowing her to pour you both glasses.

"Maybe I'm an idiot or a romantic fool, but I do believe that there's someone out there that's going to make me want to change my life," you continue, once you're alone again. "That's going to make me think that committing myself to one person is the most wonderful and freeing experience I can ever have. But until I meet her, until the pain to benefit ratio is overwhelming, or I just don't want her to walk out the door badly enough that I just can't let it happen, I'm going to continue to live my life the way I do. It hurts less people. I won't make promises I can't keep. Everyone involved knows where they stand."

"But how do you know you're not hurting them?" she challenges you. "This is really good," she says, swallowing a bite of her prosciutto-wrapped melon. "Maybe they just tell you what you want to hear? They want to see if they can be the one that finally tames you, gets you to change your ways? Have you ever thought of that?"

She causes you to wryly chuckle, because you have thought of that, especially in regard to her. It's part of the reason you threw out the 'friends' thing to her yesterday, because you can't afford to send her mixed signals - you're too mixed up about her as it is. 

"It is good," you agree, reaching out to get another slice. "But it's because I stick to dating girls that have the same life philosophy as myself," you reply after a moment. "I make it a point to stay away from girls that I think might be looking for something more than just a moment. 

"You're never going to meet this girl of yours, the one that's going to make you give up everything and change your life, if you never open yourself up to girls who are deeper than a thimble or who might want more from you," she reasons. "Do you think your sister just stumbled upon this great relationship she has with her boyfriend?"

"Maybe she's just going to fall out of the sky one day," you laugh, and then think to yourself, or maybe you'll just see her out a window one afternoon.

"I think you're incredibly emotionally cautious and cut off," she says bluntly. 

"Maybe," you agree, knowing it's one of the great ironies of your life. You're a thrill seeker and adrenalin junkie, but you're totally cautious when it comes to matters of the heart and emotions. "But I'm not hurting anyone."

"But you're also not opening yourself up to anything, either," she replies, a hint of accusation in her voice. "I might never be able to trust Jess again, no matter if he ever truly matures or not, and there might have been a lot of crap as well. But for a while there, he made me feel something like I've never felt before. He made my heart race and my palms sweat, and made every thought fly out of my mind just by kissing me…"

"Then why go back to Dean at all?" you butt in.

"Because he was safer than Jess, and that was what I was looking for when it happened," she explains. "Like I said, freshman year was strange. I wanted to feel safe and loved again. Jess was exhilaration and pain, and it's a combination I'm never going to willingly put myself through ever again. But I still wouldn't trade it. There were a couple of months there, before things started going sideways, when it was wonderful. He got me. We had everything in common - books, music, movies, even food - and then there was the passion we both had for each other," you see a wistfulness come over her.

"Why didn't you lose your virginity to him?" you interrupt, then wait for her answer as the waiter comes back to clear your first course and deliver your pasta course.

"I wasn't ready," she replies. "He wanted to, but I just wasn't ready yet. And then he left and now it's never going to happen. I'll never emotionally trust him again, but I still wouldn't trade what happened. And that's what you're missing out on by never opening yourself up to someone," she finishes bluntly.

"I've felt passion," you shoot back.

"Have you ever had your heart beat faster just because you saw another person? Feel like you can't wait to get up in the morning just because you can't wait to see them? Have your palms sweat just because you think about that person?" she questions sharply.

"No," you admit, but then confess to yourself that she's already made you feel the middle one, at least. You don't want to go to sleep at night either for the same reason. You don't want her to leave tomorrow, but you also don't want her to stay. For your own peace of mind you need her to leave. You need for something other than her to fill up your thoughts and senses. 

"Then you haven't really lived," she says matter-of-factly, "and you're not going to know how to open yourself up to that girl when she does fall out of the sky for you."

Her words cut like a knife. You know they're right, because you already have no idea what to do with this beautiful brown-haired, blue-eyed creature who walked into your life, and makes you think about things you've never really thought about, yet you still can't do a damn thing about any of them. You know she's perfect for you, from the love of books and language you have in common to the way you can't wait to see her from the moment you open your eyes each morning. But even with all that, you know you're not ready to take that leap of faith and jump into the unknown, to fly without a net.

---

_I don't understand what's happening to me. Talking about Jess today reminded me just how futile it is to try to be someone you think is right or what someone else needs instead of just doing what's right for yourself. Even if being with Jess was what was right at that time, taking so long to take the chance screwed up so many things as well._

All the loneliness and displacement of last year led me to be someone I barely recognize, someone I hate looking at in the mirror because she's not who I'm supposed to be. I'm supposed to be the good girl, not the other woman.

And, yet, here I sit, fascinated by a beautiful boy with laughing brown eyes who tells me point-blank he can't be and won't even consider being what I want or might need him to be. I can't be the only one that gets a jolt when his fingers lace through mine. I can't be the only one that feels the rightness when his hand rests at the base of my spine. This can't all be one-sided. Can it?

But if it isn't one-sided, what does that mean? That even if he feels the same things I do…what? I'm not enough to make him consider trying? Because something is too much to ask, the only other option is nothing? There's no place in between that can be a happy medium? 

With Dean I always felt safe. With Jess I always knew he wanted me, could feel his eyes following me all though Stars Hollow. With Logan I'm not even sure of that. One minute it feels like we're heading somewhere, the next it feels like a brick wall is being erected in our path. 

With Dean and Jess at least I knew what I was getting, both times. One was safe, even if he wasn't right anymore. One was exhilarating chaos. With Logan it's the questions and unknown that is so maddening. I just don't know. And while I feel like I know him better as a person now, I don't feel like I know_ anything anymore. _

I want what I saw in that painting today: someone who makes me feel at peace, someone who's home for me. But I also know that I want what I told Lane before the whole thing with Dean happened - I want someone that makes my heart race, too. I don't think it's wrong to want all of that. I don't think it's impossible to think all of that can come from one person. Grandma used to have that with Grandpa, and I know somehow they'll find that again. They're just being stubborn. Sookie gets that from Jackson, they love to bicker with each other enthusiastically. It's so energetic and fiery, but still familiar and loving, as well. I know it exists, and it's what I want. 

Not that I thought I found all of that this week. I think I thought that I'd maybe found someone who had the possibility, at least, for it to maybe happen one day. But I'm not sure. I'm less sure today than I was two days ago. It felt so right standing there, with my head on his shoulder. It fits right there so well, like it was made to go there, and yet who he is…his words say something else. 

Maybe I should just ignore the words, and only look at the actions. Those tell me he wants what I want. To try. The possibility of maybe. The excitement of what if. And yet…there are his words. They say the exact opposite, and that puts things back at square one. 

It seems like even though I know him, Logan, better now, the hope and attraction I felt just a few days ago seem futile and pointless. He's not going to budge. I'm obviously not someone that's going to make him think about budging. I'm not the girl he's waiting on to fall out of the sky. I'm just the girl from the garden that distracted him for a week, made nice conversation with him and became his friend. He won't let me be anything else.

I gained a friend here, but I feel like I lost a lot as well.

TBC

The painting they discuss can be seen, here. 


	8. Day 12

**Day 12**

"I guess we'll see each other in a few weeks," you smile, sitting down next to her on the bench for the last time. She leaves for home in a few hours, and Honor actually booked a flight yesterday and will get here tomorrow. 

You do wonder, though, what Rory will think about the non-geeky, playboy Logan who acts like a typical college coed. Not that she had met a fake version of you; it was just she's only met one side of you - the side that loves the written word and ignores all the burdens that come with that love. And while she knows about your no-relationship policy in theory, it's not like she's ever seen you attached to another girl, though the idea of being with another girl while Rory's around has no appeal for you. You have a feeling things are going to get dicey when you get back to school, trying to see if you can live your life like you're used to and still be friends with her. Because no matter what she makes you feel, you're not ready to change. Not yet. Not even for Rory Gilmore.

"I guess we will," she smiles back. "I never expected in my Daisy Miller moment to meet a fellow literature loving Yalie this summer."

"Well, I never thought the best part of the summer would end up being me twiddling my thumbs and sitting on my ass waiting for Honor to finally show up," you laugh, reaching out to grasp her hand, pulling her towards you so you can kiss her cheek. The corners of your mouths just touch and you feel a spark where your lips intersect. You'd like to do more, to move your lips more firmly onto hers - it wouldn't take much, and normally you would, but you can't. Muddying the waters even more than they already are is too much danger, the kind you don't get a thrill out of. And though it has begun to lift, and you like to think you've had something to do with it, the sadness is still there in her eyes. You know there are things she needs to work through back home, and kissing her like you want to would just confuse and complicate things. For her - as well as for you. Better to be a friend, not have recriminations, and leave the doors open for the future. After all, school starts in five weeks, when you'll have all the time in the world.

"These are for you, but promise you won't open the parcel till I'm gone," you say, setting a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine down on the bench between you, not giving away how difficult a decision it was for you to decide to actually give this to her. "Preferably after you're on the plane."

---

_I didn't know what to think at first. We hadn't ever discussed Thoreau or James, but he gave me first editions of _Walden_ and _Portrait of a Lady_ as going away gifts, if you can call them that. It took me a while, but somewhere over the Atlantic I realized what it meant, and I have to write it down._

It wasn't happenstance, though in a way it was, but somehow he saw me several days before we actually met. He sought me out. He sought me out and I never would have known, but he wanted me to. Wanted to know if I would put together what he meant by the books he gave me. 

Which offers an intriguing question or opportunity, a conundrum. I screwed up. I know I screwed up, Mom was right. But maybe now I'm getting a second chance, a bit of a do over, an opportunity to rectify things. Life gives you gifts, doors; sometimes it's up to you to walk through them. Maybe he's not ready for everything, not yet. But then neither am I. Not right away. No matter how perfect things felt between us sometimes this past week. Last year I went backward, this year, well, fall semester can't get here quickly enough. I plan on going forward.

FIN

**Story prompt**: (from the movie Notting Hill; referring to Marc Chagall's painting 'La Mariee'):

Will: You like Chagall?  
Anna: I do. It feels like how being in love should be. Floating through a dark blue sky.  
Will: With a goat playing the violin.  
Anna: Yes-happiness isn't happiness without a violin-playing goat.  
**One thing you would like to see in the story**: a private garden square in Notting Hill, London  
**One thing you don't want to see in the story**: Rory in tears or crying 


End file.
